


White Death

by avaelon125



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anthropomorphic, Bigotry & Prejudice, Character Study, Conspiracy, Crimes & Criminals, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Drama, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Hate Crimes, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Murder, On Hiatus, Organized Crime, Other, Parenthood, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Slight Alternate Universe, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Terrorism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:45:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 156,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avaelon125/pseuds/avaelon125
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Judy Hopps is a rising star in the Zootopia Police Department, bearing the letters "ZPD" proudly on her chest as she goes about her duties as a patrol officer. Upholding justice and honour, and saving those in need is what she lives for. But one night, a call comes in, one that changes everything. In time, her whole world begins to shatter around her. Will she overcome the grim realities of her duty as the status quo unravels, or will the circumstances destroy her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dim Entrance

There was an aspect of police work very few officers ever thought of when joining the force. One that was both profoundly disturbing, wholly life-altering when observed for the first time, and jarring. To protect and serve; their motto, always. But once the protection part fails? It was all coroners, crime scene photos, and leering, empty, pale faces, exhumed from their unnatural resting places to lie twisted and broken in the places they fell. And for Judy, this was her first. To some in the force, it was a badge of honour. Their first murder scene. But this time, it was different, even to the veteran officers on the force.

"C'mon, Rudy, it's okay." A pat on the back and a comforting smile from one of the paramedics as the rhino leaned on the side of the ambulance, a cold, metal box on wheels, and dry-heaved unceremoniously on the snow-speckled ground below, "Happens to the best of 'em."

"I'll be fine." He retorted, somewhat curtly, but upon doing so, the images returned; horrid images of deep, crimson gashes, torn fur, and empty eyes, drying out as the last fleeting embers of warmth left their vessel. So he vomited again.

The air was cold; Tundra region. Freezing winds battered the sides of the patrol vehicles, which stood beside one another at odd angles. The emergency caused them to rocket over as quickly as they could, and in doing so, parking in any organised manner was of little importance. Judy wondered about this as she pushed the night club doors open with her shoulder, the right one moving forward barely an inch or two while the left one swung widely to let her pass. She wondered about a great many things in that moment, but none of them were coherent, or organised into a palpable, rational line. Squiggles on a piece of paper that she had made and flung over her shoulder. No rhyme or reason behind them. And the same images that plagued the rhino plagued her too. Her feet left wide, oblong shapes in the snow as she walked forward, and the chill was strong against her bare pads. This drew her back bitterly, into the real world. For a moment she willed herself to think of Nick, who was home now, lying in their shared bed, sweating out a severe bout of the flu. Her fingers curled around the edges of her reflective jacket. Beneath them, she could almost feel his fur, moistened by his persistent sweating, and the panting which kept her awake in the dead of night, clinging onto the sheets, hoping that he was going to be alright. But now she was at a loss. Wholly, that was what she felt: loss. Of innocence. Of power. For once, the position she was in no longer gave her the ability to return things to the way they were. Revert the unjust to the just. Five victims. A gazelle, young, no older than her, she imagined, struck down in her prime by a blow from a handgun; the shot ripped her jugular open. She drowned in her own blood. Two wolves, brothers evidently, or at least she had supposed them to be by sight, one with a gaping wound in his chest, made by a shotgun blast. It had severed most of his internal blood vessels, and a good part of his organs lay shredded and splattered across the floor in wide fountains, exuding a force and direction extant for only a moment, a flash upon it leaving the barrel, and then becoming lodged inside of him. But the streaks had already told their tale, and were now unravelling further secrets to the coroner, who was inspecting the wolf's remains with due diligence and professionalism. 

Judy could not begin to quantify the polar bear's cold pragmatism as he lifted decaying limbs, turned over victims whose insides spilled everywhere, and examined the frozen expressions on their dead faces with an almost ritual approach, as if he was attempting to piece together those last few fateful moments from a series of shattered snapshots. The second brother had his arm torn off with the very same shotgun. He had lived slightly longer, she imagined, because his arm rested in a pool of blood beside one of the tables, and a series of drips, some forceful, others more restrained, had led them to his final resting place, against the back of the bar. He lay slumped over, having slipped in the direction of his lost limb, and with nothing to support him any-more, he had fallen with the barren stump protruding from beneath his side. It had ruined his coat entirely. A donkey, middle-aged, evidently there for the strippers, who had no place being in the fight when it had erupted, and had most of his head torn off by an automatic. The bullets were numerous, forceful, and frighteningly efficient. In the city centre, Judy rarely encountered firearms. They weren't as common, simply. Nowhere to hide them, with the prevalence of security cameras both public and private. But here it was open season on as many illicit weapons as one could get their paws on. Evidently the attackers had helped themselves. Military hardware, too, if the profiler was correct. Heavy shit. He spat those words. Mulled over them for a moment as he chewed on a toothpick, and spat them. Between his fingers, he held a cartridge. Judy stood beside him, gazing at him, but through him, through his fingers, through the brass casing in them, and through the din of his voice as he ran through the numbers and statistics, power calculations, kilo-joules of this, and newtons of that. He then asked her whether she was feeling well. "Yes, peachy. Best I've ever felt." A stupid response. Hollow, and without heart. Barren.

Last victim, she thought, as she opened the door of her patrol car and sat down upon the cold leather seat. The door slammed shut behind her, but her breath remained visible; the temperature inside the cab was the same as outside, and the engine was cut. Only the solemn, spinning blue-and-whites bore some expression of activity, and they too shone akin to funeral candles. Dancing in the wind. Spinning. Strobing to some forgotten purpose. Justice. Honour. Bring back the dead. Return what was taken, and ask no more of them, but to tell that final tale. Judy lowered her head into her paws. Her long ears slumped back even further, having sat crestfallen since she walked in, a first responder, and first on the scene, and oddly, she was one of the last out, of the blues at least. Those that remained within the neon tomb were the cleaners. Coroner, profiler, forensics, cross-examiners waiting like vultures to pounce onto the memories of the sole survivor. In the darkness of her closed lids flashbulbs of the horror within played over and over, and she sat chained to her seat, unable to move or escape. Hot tears streaked down her cheeks. Judy broke out into a long, protracted weep, and the deafening silence inside her own car only made it worse. It echoed against the walls and around her. It enveloped her, consumed her. The silent rage. A balled-up paw struck the space beneath the window, and she beat against it thrice, each time less strongly, waning in power until even she had to submit her badge beneath the gaze of death. This was her reality. To see to the shrapnel in the aftermath. Pick it from the walls, clean it, console those left behind, swallow hard once or twice, and nod to herself. How could they be so calm? It was a storm within her. How could the polar bear (whose name she had not wholly caught) be this calm about holding the paws of that dead wolf? He was someone's son. He was someone's father, someone's brother, someone's something, and now he was nothing but a mass of evidence, to be kept in cold storage until needed. In that moment, a chasm of fear had opened inside of her. Protect and serve. Last victim.

Male, aged between nineteen and twenty. Bullet to the lungs, severed an artery; name of blood vessel expunged in the aftermath. She could not bring herself to recall it. Latin words. His manner of death bit at her. He had survived the longest, having died mere seconds before they had broken the door open with their own weapons, tasers, less-than-lethals, at the ready. Cause of death? Drowning. In his own blood. The coroner had estimated that it took him over an hour to die. An hour spent at the gates of death, in a growing pool of crimson, eyes dimming, breath shallowing. Come to terms with your demons in an hour.

Male, between nineteen and twenty, red fox, green eyes.

White death.


	2. Night Windows

Judy had sat in the car for a very long time. The world sway before her eyes but she did nothing to reveal that fact. Her tears had dried up and now she existed in a space between spaces; rigid silence, ringing out. During training, almost two years ago, they practised using flash-bang grenades. Pull the pin, throw, and wait. A powdered component she never bothered to learn the specifics of ignited within, producing an incredibly loud bang, and an equally bright flash. During her first run with the SWAT unit, she had wrongly timed her throw, and it ricocheted off the wall, directly before her feet. In the space of perhaps two seconds, or less, she was dazed. First, the panic set in; blind clawing at the wall, twitching ears and feet as she tried to make sense of her surroundings, but a monolith of white obstructed her vision. She blinked, once, then twice, and a third time. An image lay burned into her mind. Plywood walls marked with red paint, simulating a battleground. Shaking her head did nothing to clear it. Twenty minutes and some smelling salts later, she had come to, but a buzzing persisted in her ears for over two days. Rabbits had incredibly sensitive hearing, and the 180 decibels of sound did her no favours. This episode rolled through her mind on repeat. The buzzing was familiar. Although this time, she could not imagine it would leave her ears in such a short span of time. Judy drew into herself. Her paws tucked under her shoulders, forearms pressing inwards, she almost hugged herself. A deep sigh rolled off her lips. It quivered atop her throat for a moment and she watched her breath dance before her eyes. The cold was unbearable. Thin fur, and a thin uniform to boot. Two winter coats lay in the back seat but she could not find the power within herself to reach for them. Instead, she shifted from the passenger seat into the driver's seat, and turned the key. The engine roared to life at once, but dropped into a low purr almost immediately after. The radio had turned on. Dispatch was in a frenzy. The entire Tundra contingent was on high alert. She closed her eyes. In the distance she imagined countless patrol cars rushing to their designated spots, the officers inside of them most certainly armed with lethals, awaiting orders; standard procedure. The ZPD had to establish that this wasn't a terrorist attack first. The sound of the passenger door opening tore her from her thoughts. A pair of canine eyes peered inwards, but the remainder of the silhouette lay hidden behind a veil of darkness. He stepped in; Ritter. He was temporarily assigned to her. She exchanged a glance with him and gave a soft nod.

"Hopps." He greeted her flatly, and paused for a moment, looking over the rabbit; her posture had changed. She hung her feet off the edge of the seat and kept her paws on her lap, but there was a distinct tension about her, "You're in my seat."

"Sorry." A dry response, and she pressed the door open. Cold rushed in again, and she walked around the vehicle as the wolf climbed across the divider in the middle. Cold against her pads again. Judy observed her surroundings for a few seconds; the ambulances had driven off, and were now replaced by a large, square van. It resembled that of a SWAT unit, but was metallic in colour, and upon its flanks sat the seal of the district coroner. Atop the box it had instead of a stowage trailer lay a white, square device of some sort; cooling unit. It was a rolling refrigerator. Sickness washed over her, but she pressed it down, and balled her paws up. This was not the time.

The inside of the patrol car had warmed up slightly during the time she spent alone, and she observed Ritter keenly as he warmed either of his paws on the exhaust vent beside the steering column. She propped her chin up on her paw and looked out the window. The warm breeze of her breath caused blotches of condensation to appear before her nose, and she leaned in; it felt cold against her pink flesh. Images turned to nothing. There was nothing left. Only purpose. Next assignment. Listen to the scanner. Wait. Judy gave the clock a glance over her shoulder. Almost midnight now. Her shift ended an hour and a half ago, and Nick was probably worried sick by now. Her phone was on silent in the back seat. Not the time to check. The last thing she needed was a reminder of domestic comfort.

"Bogo wants us back at the station." Ritter chimed in, and she turned to face him. He clutched the radio mouthpiece in his paw, thumb characteristically raised to stay off the frequency, "Debriefing apparently. No idea why he'd want us there, though. That's usually the job of the around-the-clocks." Ritter was referring to the detectives and profilers which stayed behind to clean up the mess. The very ones whose pragmatism she had come to resent in the past two hours. It was their job to present their evidence and ascertain the possibility of a second attack, if there was one. If it was an act of terror, they would call in the foot-soldiers. The men and women in blue, to provide emergency assitance and cordon services where possible, "Either way, we're needed. Let's hit the road." He always said that. All she did was give a quiet, respectful nod in response. Nothing. A chasm.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen." Bogo began, and leaned across the podium; behind him, two bright neon lights worked overtime to illuminate the briefing room, as well as the extensive maps and plans the on-paw forensics experts and dispatchers had pieced together in their absence, "It has been over five years since we last had an incident like this. Some of you were present during the immediate aftermath of the Zootopia Central Massacre. The reason..." He cleared his throat, and his accent consolidated itself at once, "...why I'm bringing this up is because there's a set procedure in place covering the aftermath of something as serious as this. You're here tonight because you're the first line of defence. Zootopia needs you now more than ever." The buffalo stepped out from behind the podium and paced to the other side of the room. A brief moment passed during which he stood in silence before a map of the Tundra district, and Judy half-expected him to point something out. But instead, all he did was clear his throat again. He was visibly exhausted. The hour was late. Almost a quarter to one in the morning. Some of her fellow officers cradled cups of coffee in their paws but all she had between her fingers was a pencil, which she turned and rotated nervously. An elephant sitting not too far from her yawned.

"At the present moment, we are unaware whether or not this is the first in a string of planned attacks, and while I do hesitate to use the word in a situation like this, the possibility of terrorism is a distinct one. We mustn't rule it out, under any circumstances." He stood proudly at the halfway point between the map and the podium with his arms crossed, "As of right now, this entire precinct is on high alert. The probability of an attack on the centre of Zootopia is slim, but we must remain vigilant." The buffalo had a way of enunciating certain words at the ends of sentences, particularly if he sensed that the attention of those he was speaking to had begun to wander, and a forceful nod corroborated that assumption; at once, all the heads in the room had darted up, save for Judy's. She was still trying to make herself feel something. Sitting front and centre with her eyes fixed on her lap did her no favours, she imagined, but Bogo hadn't mentioned it, "We have seven eight rapid response teams on stand-by. That's over seventy men and women ready to mobilize at the drop of a hat. We've also alerted the military. While we don't believe that their assistance will be required, the old saw applies: better safe than sorry." This earned a few stoic nods from the audience, "There is little else to discuss. Our analysts are pouring over the data gathered from the scene as we speak. Zootopia's extensive network of real-time traffic cameras should provide us with some clues regarding who the attackers were and where they came from, but an immediate stock-taking of the scene reveals that the night club reels had been wiped shortly before the police arrived. Roughly twenty minutes of footage is missing."

Bogo continued to speak, discussing more technical matters, but Judy hadn't heard any of it. She would press the ends of her pencil down until it bent in the centre, and with a degree of anticipation she expected it to snap; no matter how hard she pushed, it didn't splinter. But the pressure against the tips of her fingers relaxed her, or at least she told herself it did. It persisted until it almost reached a point of pain, a burning sensation, but she would release it, and then it would vanish, in waves seemingly following the beat of her heart. She glanced to the window. Beyond the weathered pane lay the expanse of Zootopia's market district. Towering pillars of glass and concrete that shone through the mist and mire that surrounded them. To be a bird, she thought. To fly high above it all. Feel the wind in her feathers. Down here, all she could sense was the stale, motionless air, and the scent of coffee around her. The bear sitting to her right smelled strongly of cigarettes. Judy detested the scent before, but now, she found it oddly pleasing. Calming, even. It distracted her. Gave her something to think about. Why did he start smoking? So many of them smoked. They would gather outside, before the rotating glass doors at break time, come Hell or high water.

Even when rain streaked down the sides of the building and the streets lay drenched, they would huddle up, pull their coats a little ways along, and smoke. Bright, white flashes of smoke, rising off the gathered heads. To soar to some imagined place. Soar. Judy wished she could close her eyes and mull over that word. She did that at times when everything in life seemed to leave her. Pick a word and focus on it, learn it inside and out, repeat it until it stopped sounding like a word and became a taste upon her tongue. Just as she felt the frenzied beating of her heart slow, and the pressures of her breath wane like an afternoon gale pushing seaward, it took her again. The images. The horrid smells of blood, acerbic on the tongue, saccharine almost, stinging irons of pain pushing into her being. This time, she was powerless to resist. Her eyes slid closed, and she let out a soft sob. It wasn't audible to anyone but her, and she was sure of it, but the pain of two meagre tears sliding down each of her cheeks riled her like a fire beneath her tail. Judy wanted to flee, to hide. Away from the pain. Where the strength of her own feelings could play out on a white Teleprompter before her transfixed eyes until the images died and she curled up, praying for dreamless sleep. Nick was at home. Nick. His name. Nicholas. She adored it. She adored hearing it, speaking it, whispering it to herself when no-one was listening. Bogo continued speaking uninterrupted. Had she kept her eyes open, she may have noticed one or two glances he shot her way, but he did not mention it, not for a moment.

Nick was what she tried to usher in now, more firmly, more palpably. His name. In her mind, it spun, across the images. There appeared a slew of moments that grew endless in time and warmth. They fell in love slowly. It was gradual. Their first big case solved. Dates followed. A relationship. They made love on her creaking bed in her lousy one-room apartment as their neighbours snored through the thin walls. Then she moved in with him. She spent months learning each of his habits from afar, and he did the same, unconsciously. Now they rhymed. Marriage followed swiftly. Neither of them thought they needed paper proof of their union, but circumstances had made it easier for them to live with it than without it. And the present moved on. One to complete the other. Oddballs, foreigners to the world, ever peering inwards. Ambitions and resistance to the desolation that the hand they were dealt gave them. Always finding the energy to be together. And on the weekends, hugging his arm close to herself, picking through the red bristles in his fur as they watched a film together, and she'd look up at him; always, Nicholas. Heat rose inside her stomach. Butterflies. Bogo's voice drifted into her ears, "...one red fox, identity unknown..." And this became a knife to stab her in the heart. Falling, falling down, through branches, crashing and breaking, and she hung above him. Nicholas. Hollow eyes. Dead. Taken from her. They had looked so similar. Suspended in a nightmare. Thankfully, the list of victims was the concluding note, and she had paced out of the room just in time.

Her head hung low, eyes fixed at the ground as she attempted to purge the chasm within from opening again. Beyond the doors of the briefing room, ZPD Central was a mausoleum. Tall ceilings in the vast lobby, flanked by walkways that ebbed and twisted downwards, into stairs, circling around the imagined axis that lay at the centre of the structure. Awash in dim half-light. All the lights had been switched off for the night. They had an auxiliary building for the night duty. Much more raw and rugged. Less clean. This was the public face of the ZPD. In the aft side of the structure is where the underbelly dwelt. Neon interrogation rooms, cold bars, and only a simple wooden desk acting as a reception beneath a low, unceremonious ceiling, and two glass doors protecting it. The new building had been built beside the old one. Public face. Smile and wave where and when needed, protect and serve with vigilance at all other times. Its appearance betrayed the façade; trees below, small bushes placed for atmosphere, ignored by the staff, and sneered upon by the criminals they took in. On brighter days, Judy wondered about their purpose. About whether anyone gave these feeble offshoots of nature a second glance in passing, or whether they were relegated to the role of pure scenery, utterly ignored. But now, she was guilty of that very same crime as she darted down the stairs and across the lobby, keeping her pace at a constant high. She heard footsteps fast approaching behind her, and she turned; Ritter, again. He bore a departed expression. Get home, she could hear in her mind, following him with her eyes from afar; get home and do whatever you need to do to forget what you have seen. The tears had left long, red marks in her fur, rust-coloured and distinct, and she averted her gaze. Don't let them see you like this. Be strong, she lectured herself. Be strong and stable. You're the pillar of your people now. Weakness cost you in the past. But all that did was usher in another wave of images. Red fox.

"Judy." He greeted her again; she nodded again. That was the extent of it. Just as he passed her, he froze, and turned, "Everything okay?" An empty gaze directed at the tiles and a soft nod from her, and he took a step closer, "Well...I'm not sure what I can do, but..." He reached into his pocket, "Do you smoke?" When Judy looked up, her glance was met by that of an unfurled cigarette protruding from within a small, square box. Without thinking, she reached for it. Why, she begged of herself. Why did you do that? Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But before she could protest any further, her feet were already following Ritter in lock-step. The air outside was temperate. Central district. Neither here nor there. Despite that, the nightly chill had crept in, and she felt it embrace her ankles. The bunny bit down on the cigarette butt with her front teeth. How would she go about this? Addiction, plummeting into it, out of breath, heart racing, the need always there, always in the back of her head. Be responsible, Judy. She heard her mother's voice ring out in the stillness. Be responsible. Fuck that. Red fox. Wash it away. Swallow it. Bitter. Metallic. Saccharine, almost.

"What are you doing?" He questioned with a tilt to his head and she shrugged, too nonchalantly, "You've been crying." He noted, flatly. It wasn't an attempt at comfort. It was an observation. Pragmatism, "Let me get that for you." Ritter was a great deal taller than her, and he bent down, on one knee, and held out a lighter. The flame danced before her eyes. She felt it burn against her nose slightly, but she leaned forward obediently. A pair of curious purple eyes sat transfixed against a glowing red tip, and not knowing what to do or how, she dragged. In an instant, her mouth was awash with the taste of burning plant matter. Judy held it there. She did not bring herself to inhale fully, and instead kept it in the corners of her mouth. One, two, three. She took a deep breath. Her chest burned. She felt her head lighten slightly, and then further, until she had the distinct sense that she had been huffing helium. And exhale. A cloud of smoke, from her lips and nose. It burned inside of her nostrils.

"Thank you." She returned, and gave the butt an uncertain flick; an eddie of ash spilled from the glowing tip and shattered on the floor below. She observed as the wind washed it away, into nothingness, onto the wet cement, "I'm...fine." The pause betrayed her, but she felt as if Ritter already knew that. He smoked quickly, and with a great degree of ease. This was second nature to him.

"You don't look fine to me." He remarked, but this time, there was sincerity in his voice; not an observation. Not a statement. Sympathy, "Being a cop is hard sometimes."

"Yeah." Flatly spoken, and with nothing behind it; she knew it, of course. But it didn't ring true. It didn't make the images go away. Red fox, broken, dead. Fallen from a great height. An Icarus whose feathers had been burned by chance, "Tomorrow's a new day." She dragged again. It felt more natural this time. The tobacco tube disintegrated between her fingertips and she watched it go, the slowly descending ring of fire nearing its speckled, yellow destination. It appeared almost marble-like from her point of view, "I'm late."

"We all are, Hopps." Ritter nodded in agreement and sighed a bit, "Wife is probably already worried sick about me."

"Same here." Small talk. Usually, she indulged it. Now, she despised it. It sank into her. Pragmatism. Ten years from now, she would be cold inside. Numb to the circus of it all. Bogo's briefs, dead bodies, the works; routine. Red fox. Keep that image alive, her mind beckoned her. She did not know why. But she obliged. And it drove her to tears again, almost, "I don't know how I'm going to get home."

"Trains are still running. Where do you live?"

"North burrow, above the pneumatics junction." The apartment she and Nick had moved into was one they spent weeks looking for, and they were rewarded with a lovely vista of the whole city. The reason it was so affordable is that nothing in it ever worked; but she loved it all the same. Or at least she used to. Nothing. Chasm. Empty, "How about you?"

"Take the bus. It'll get you where you need to go. Or the street-cars, but they run sparsely at this hour." He stamped the cigarette out with the sole of his foot and she followed suit, despite there still being a good bit of it left on hers, "I live up in the old town, which is almost two hours away on foot. Thankfully, I drove, and the roads are clear. I'll be home in a little while." He paused, and observed her from above. She peered up at him in response, and on equal terms; silently she wondered whether he could see the darkness inside of her. A blight, "Do you need a lift?"

"Nah." She waved her paw off; she could always take a cab home, if needed, "I'm good. Thanks, Ritter."

"No problem, Hopps. See you Monday." As he walked away, she could hear him muttering, "And hopefully not sooner." It wasn't meant as offence. Don't get called up, is what he meant. Because if they did, it was serious.

Empty street-car. The bunny could sit anywhere. She made herself comfortable beside the driver's cabin. On the way home, she cried only once more, but hollowly this time. Numbness. Her limbs felt heavy. She needed sleep, she ached for it. For the comfort of Nick beside her, and the indentation in their bed where their habits had left a mark.

Red fox.

* * *

Nick felt something shift in the covers beside him. He had been lying on his stomach, head turned to one side, and used his paw to support the pillow, beneath which he had threaded his arm. A pair of small, soft paws found his waist and soon enough he felt a small pink nose burrow into the fur of his cheek. Gentle lips pecked against his skin and retreated, turning once more, covers turning to a wave. He dwelled in a space between sleep and wake. Unclear images lay burned into his mind, the ebbing fires of dreams past, and as his eyelids flickered, the darkness embraced him. Judy. Her scent was distinct and it mingled with his, as it did many times before. Their entire bed smelled strongly of them. As he turned onto his side, he found himself muzzle-to-muzzle with her. Before him lay a meek face, partly concealed by the pillow she sank into, framed by two closed eyelids, and a pair of curving ears that dropped behind her head, as they usually did when she slept. He gave a tired smile and pulled her a bit closer, until her hips were pressed up to his. In an instant, she moved back a little bit, and turned around, onto her back at first, and then, onto the other side, and to the wall. He raised one of his eyebrows slightly; most other nights, she would bend into him immediately, and they would awaken as they had fallen asleep. Embraced. But now, all he could see was the rising and falling of her chest as she took long, deep breaths. Nick lay on his back and watched the ceiling. Their bedroom faced the city, as did the rest of their apartment, and a vast, rectangular window with evenly-spaced wooden sash bars. Due to the intensity of the light, the window had a wide Venetian blind installed on it, which Nick lowered diligently every night. It would fracture the incoming light, and cast stripes onto the ceiling. He watched them as they performed a hypnotic dance, the light growing out of nothing as passing cars on the road below illuminated it before it fell back down into a dull, yellow shimmer. His lids grew heavier with each passing moment, and soon, he found himself unable to resist. The fox nodded off. His dreams were ill-defined, and composed exclusively of abstract images, playing beside broken memories and spaces of second turning to weeks. Hours passed. He tossed and turned, waking up slightly each time, regretting not feeling Judy's weight on his upper arms and back; an anchor gone, leaving a ship adrift. Unease would wash over him whenever his eyes shot open briefly; a moment or two would pass in which he helplessly sought out Judy, and upon finding her shape where he left it, they would sink closed again. Something felt off to him, but in that space that existed between dreams and sleep, nothing had defined edges. Time was an endless mass. Beyond their shared window, the morning had begun to crack at the edges of the darkness. This was when he woke for the last time that night, and sat up. Judy was gone. The blankets where she had slept were contorted, silhouetting a foetal form quite distinctly. For a moment he thought he could see marks of fingers in the fabric. Clutching fingers, hanging on for dear life. But he had heard nothing throughout the night, save for the rippling of her gentle snore which came and went in waves. Now she was gone. Panic had set in during that split-second when he woke, but a soft noise emanating from the kitchen reassured him. The fox swung his feet out of the bed and pulled the blanket with himself. Clad in nothing but a simple pair of boxer shorts, he shook in the morning cold. As he paced down the hall that parted their bedroom and bathroom from the rest of their apartment, he willed himself to ignore the cold. At the threshold to the living room he found the door half-closed. A sliver of light, a parting between shadows, glowed in the stillness. He pushed it open.

Judy. Leaning over the sink, fully dressed in her weekend attire, and looking out the window. In the centre of their kitchen lay an island with a sink, pots and pans hanging, surrounded by bar seats, one of which she had taken. And now she was simply gazing out of the window into the back yard of their apartment building. In her paws sat a coffee mug. She hadn't noticed him. He took a tentative step forward and the wood panelling gave a laboured creak beneath the sole of his foot. Her response was instantaneous, and almost frightened; her entire upper body turned in one solid move, and she gazed at him with wide eyes. Crevices of crimson grew out of their corners. They invaded the white of her sclera. Scared. Holding the coffee mug some distance away from her body, almost like a weapon. She hadn't slept.

"Judy?" He asked as the fading coals of sleep grew cold in his mind; she said nothing. Transfixed, "Everything okay?"

"N-nick." Her voice shook as she spoke, and she set the mug down before her with a thud, onto the kitchen counter, "Go to sleep." Her eyes had turned away from him fully and were now looking at something he could not define. Neither the window nor he appeared interesting to her any-more.

"What's wrong?" The fox sensed it from a mile away. Something wasn't right, and he was sure of it. He approached her without restraint or pause, his paces echoing with worry. Soon a paw had found its way onto her shoulder, and she turned to him. Tears shone in her eyes. It seemed that she was unable to respond, and before he could react in any coherent manner, she had pulled him into an embrace, but not a loving one. Panic shook her whole body apart. It appeared that she was shaking. It wasn't a shiver, Nick concluded. Muscles moving involuntarily beneath his touch ebbed and ran, coursed, a stride borne from shock. All he could was hold her close. And then came the sobbing. Into the nape of his neck, tears spilled. At first it was only one, but then a torrent of them came, bursting forward. "It's okay, cottontail. I'm right here."

"Oh Gods..." The bunny whispered into his ear, time and time again. She repeated this phrase, until it sounded like nothing, a rush of breaths spoken above all the others, but indefinite.

"Tell me." It wasn't a demand. It was a plea. Years had passed since Nick last felt this helpless. The sensation began as a small spot of pressure in his mind but it grew into a waterfall before long, and he had to know. How to stop this. Anything but to hear her like this.

"Nightmares, oh Gods..." Composure returned to her slightly, and she moved away, and a pair of purple eyes met the green of his. The fur beneath them lay matted and heavy with moisture, and he reached up, using his thumb to wipe her tears aside. In that moment, she averted her gaze, to the floor. But he could see from above that she wasn't looking at the fugues in the tiling; she was looking through it. Through everything, "I...I couldn't get a wink of sleep in and...and...you were lying there...snoring...and I didn't want to..." At this point, she pressed her forehead into his shirt and he could feel a spreading warmth just above his heart.

"Darling, listen to me." He moved his paw to her cheek and turned her gaze upwards, to look deep into her again; there was a distinct blankness behind it all, but he did not know how to address it. What to think of it, even, "You could've always woken me. I'm here to help you with anything and everything." He raised his other paw and flashed the little golden band he wore on it, "That's what this is for." By the end of his sentence, he was smirking, but Judy wasn't. Not even a timid half-grin, as would've been par for the course. Instead, more of the same. Blankness. Confusion. Nigh on incomprehension.

"I know..." Her response was faint, but definite, and he hugged her closer again.

"What happened?" Nick took a moment or two to let her sob once or twice before posing that question. Curiosity welled up inside of him now, along with the pain of seeing her like this. But something had to have prompted this. This wasn't the Judy he knew. The early-riser, the joker, the coy, smiling, snarky ball of energy he married was replaced by a pair of crestfallen ears and an empty expression, "I won't press or anything, but..." Instead or responding verbally, he felt her paw move off his back and she pointed towards something weakly. The penuma-tube. Zootopia's mail delivery system. Theirs was constantly receiving either trash catalogues or police files. Inside the tube's opening sat a small, red package, marked "urgent". Case file. He had seen that envelope a hundred times before. It was a preliminary report. He paced over to it, and took the glass casing out, from which he retrieved the small, cardboard tube. He unravelled the safety strip that ensured it remained unopened and pulled out a manila folder. Nick set it down onto the counter, far from Judy, who had retreated into herself as if the envelope contained an explosive. The fox leafed through the first few pages, covered in long-form text, and then came the photos. A pang of sickness had hit him and he reeled a bit, but restrained himself. Blood everywhere. Bullet holes on the wall marked with forensic tags. As the shock subsided, he took a closer look at each photo. As he passed over those showing the same thing multiple times, he had wholly calmed himself. But then something punched him in the chest. A photo of someone that looked just like him, with a note attached below. He read it slowly. Each painful detail set in like a punch to the stomach. His gaze rose and met Judy's and he slapped the folder closed with his palm. In an instant, his arms were around her again, and she pulled him in at once. But there were no tears now. Only sharp breaths, shallow ones. Nightmares. He could not begin to fathom what she was experiencing. All he could reason was that he had to be there for her. In that moment, he was close to getting his phone and cancelling work today, just to spend time with her. Judy had changed completely in the span of less than twenty-four hours. He couldn't know what rash decisions she could make and what they could lead to.

"I'm staying home today." He declared and at once found himself pushed back by a pair of small, grey paws. Judy was shaking her head furiously at him.

"No, absolutely not. Go to work." She demanded. There was sternness in her voice, but no malice. She merely wanted him to take care of his responsibilities first, "I won't let us put our lives on hold because of...because I'm..." Her head fell slightly again, "Weak."

"Weak?" It was his turn to respond with a degree of shock and he slowly stood her to her feet, walking her wordlessly to the couch. They sat down and she leaned into him, bending fully into his side until her chin was on his shoulder and she gave him a week nuzzle; it wasn't an affectionate one. There was desperation in it if he had ever seen it, "Juds, you're not weak." The nickname made her perk up, and as she looked up at him, a warm gaze looked back at her, "You're so strong. Much stronger than I ever was, and I spent the greater part of my life working the streets." She gave a respectful nod, but nothing outside of that; she acknowledged his words, but he could sense that she did not believe them, "We're not putting our life on hold. We're just...look, this is frightening, okay? I've never seen you like this." This prompted her to sigh, and Nick corrected himself immediately, "You're not the one frightening me. The circumstances are. I just want to make sure you're safe."

"I'm not going to..." She swallowed hard, "I'm not going to kill myself over this, Nick."

They had these conversations in the past. Early police work was no problem for her, but as the cases multiplied and their difficulty and complexity rose, and her working hours stretched out, she fell. And hard. He could still recall the moments in which she cried into his shoulder just like she did that morning. He had stumbled onto her writing a note he never wanted to read or see one evening, when he himself was held up at the office, and it tore at him from within. There had been suspicions for a while prior to that, but he chalked them up to his imagination, to changing circumstances, and to differing viewpoints, but that Tuesday night changed everything. He had made mistakes, and he would make sure they never happened again. It seemed to him that darkness came knocking once more. But the fox was ready to repel it back into the space from which it came. And looking down, at the curled form of his wife as she clung to him, his features turned to stone; he would never let this happen.

"Go to work." This time, the resolve in her tone was final. No more discussions. He was going, "I just need time. I...I need to be alone."

"Anything, sweetheart." He pecked the top of her head, "Anything."

* * *

Some hours and an uneasy breakfast later, the closing click of the front door found him descending the stairs into the driveway with lead weights on his feet. It was better to not press the point. Nick sat inside the car, and stared ahead of himself. The watch on his wrist ticked away. He glanced at the rear-view. About a year ago, when his job had solidified, he had supplanted his tacky Hawaiian shirts for a steady supply of white, pressed dress shirts and assorted ties. Now he looked like every other person in the business district. He sighed. This wasn't the source of his concern; it was merely a loathsome distraction. His thoughts ran wild. Judy, help Judy, talk to Judy. Always look out for number one. But she wasn't just number one.

She was everything.


	3. Not With Haste

Traffic was thin at seven in the morning on a Sunday, and Nick breezed through intersection after intersection, with only the lights to hold him back. Nick was perpetually methodical about following traffic laws, and even if he saw a yellow light he could catch, he never chased it. Foxes weren't held in high regard by the city's police force, and despite his clean appearance and the plethora of proof regarding his motives in his laptop bag, he never ran the risk. Gambling was a habit a long time gone, and he reasoned that it was best to not gamble with one's own pelt. The empty streets appeared almost deceptive to him as he swerved into the office parking lot. The entire paved rectangle, intersected and divided with carefully-laid white lines, had been covered in shade. The building in which he worked was new, as was the entire district; ongoing efforts at commercial and residential expansion undertaken by the Zootopia City Council created patches of modernity in a city consumed by age and tradition. This gave it a mixed appearance from the windows of the apartment. At one end, the low brick houses of the old district stood in stark juxtaposition to the curving, tapering spires of high business, where power and money meant everything. Behind those panes, always glowing in the morning light, as the sun rose from behind North Burrow, lay a world wholly foreign to him, a grounded fox with no ambitions towards amassing (in his opinion) obscene amounts of wealth.

Modesty was key, and Nick never fully comprehended the need to arm oneself defensively towards life with troves of luxurious furniture, expansive top-floor offices, and fine suits. It felt like a wall to him; wealth was a last ditch effort to sever oneself from the hardships of life. He imagined the lives of those he occasionally caught in passing on the street, those exuberantly wealthy captains of industry, equipped prominently with gold lapel pins and designer watches, to be fully bereft of any momentous emotional passing. There was nothing money couldn't buy, be it emotional safety, or recluse from the pressures of rationing one's own hours away behind the frail walls of an office cubicle. But now, he sat in his cheap car, with his cheap shirt, and cheap laptop bag, housing an equally frugal device, and observed the path to his destiny, not as eternal as he would've wanted it to be. A lowly intern at Zootopia Daily Times, pressed into editing columns with vivacious, eye-grabbing titles and playfully destitute language. Entrance the masses. He understood it, of course. Plain to him were the tricks of the trade used to distract and divert from pressing issues, and having grown up where he did, in a family living from one welfare check to the other, to discard the follies of high rule and wealth was simple. And now he had awoken to find himself serving the machine. An almost poetic thought, if not fully drowned out by the creeping frost across the shaded ground. The shadow cast by the building had barely moved since sunrise, and as a result, the gentle, warming rays of the Sun were unable to reach the ground. He shook beneath his starched collar as he walked to the front door. Nick was ready to earn another day's living, nine to five, chugging his coffee and observing the unchanging, stone-faced yellow of his pencils. Sometimes he would rearrange them to stave off the boredom. It was an unstimulating world. From petty water-cooler discussions to off-paw greetings as they began another day, it seemed shallow to him, lacking real purpose. Nothing to change and affect.

There was a moment in his youth when Nick wanted to become a politician. He would spend hours before the mirror, wearing a ridiculously loud clip-on tie he found amongst his father's old clothes, and sometimes he would proudly observe the slickness of his tongue and speech. Alas, it was not to be. Instead his charisma came into its own when it was time to "hustle", to cheat and gamble his way through each day's living. Now he avoided politics, partly out of annoyance at everyone's opinions and their inherent loudness, and in part due to the creeping cold he always felt at the base of his back; the persistent question of whether or not he could've or should've been more. Until Judy had come into his life, he was a lowly fox, but she was the first one to see him as more than just a red pelt with defiant green eyes and a peevish grin. Repress the thought, he repeated to himself, not unlike a mantra, as he pushed the flat glass doors of the building open with his shoulder. The receptionist was a chipper antelope named Hornetta. Her name was the source of some amusement in the building, but he refrained from joining in the friendly jest, as its participants had defended it. Nick knew what it was to be different over things you could not affect. There was a component of mean spirit in it, certainly. At the heart of it all, Hornetta was an outlier, and not even the wide and joyous grin she gave him and everyone else every morning as they passed her desk could've deflected from that fact. On top of it all, she also struggled with social interaction. Sometimes she would mill her words too long, or linger on certain phrases for an extended amount of time; at one point, weeks went by where she always affirmed everything with a chipper "oki-dokey", and while Nick found it endearing, he seemed to be alone in his opinion. But he waved back at her happily each time, and she waved back. Sometimes he would talk to her. As he passed the reception this moring, he decided to invite her to dinner one night, just so she could meet Judy. He imagined that they'd have a lot in common; the upbeat nature was there, the relentless fixation on a single object in hopes of better understanding it, and the many nervous habits neither could rid themselves of. A perfect match.

The lobby of the office looked similar to its outside; cold and impersonal. A pair of elevators, a set of chairs, large and small, to house those in waiting for meetings or other important business, but rarely used on the whole, and some potted plants scattered through corners and edges of the space for good measure. Nothing flashy. The Zootopia Daily Times headquarters occupied only three floors of it, and the rest was taken up by software firms, a banking conglomerate, and a pulp-and-paper enterprise that displayed its stock exchange ticker proudly beneath its logo. He tilted his head at it as he waited for the elevator, index finger impatiently depressing the button over and over, as if that would make it come faster. The logo of the pulp-and-paper company was a sideways "E", and beneath it sat its ticker, "ENE", and their motto: Be different. While Nick never paid any attention to matters of economic importance, he did overhear someone in the office mention a possible sting operation related to a mass embellishment and ponzi scheme scandal inside the aforementioned company. Apparently their stock was sinking too. The irony of their motto made him smile to himself as he boarded the elevator, laden with early-risers, overnight workers, cleaning staff, and an impatient and important-looking bull clad in a suit; all of them different based on the brief glimpses of their eyes that he caught, but fundamentally the same. Earn a living, nine to five, fuck your dreams. Be different. With a ding, he arrived at his floor, and saw pandemonium unfolding before his eyes. Panic-stricken workers ran from one end of the room, carrying armfuls of files, from tiny gerbils holding as much mail as they could to a slow-moving elephant carrying a stack of folders in half-open boxes.

"Coming through!" One of the gerbils exclaimed as he darted between Nick's legs and left a paper trail of spilled index cards behind. Nick followed him for a moment as he made his way to his desk. Calls echoed across the room, over the cubicle dividers, and an army of telephones rang incessantly, sometimes being answered in twos by hapless writers hungry for new information and facts. He found his workstation quickly enough. Situated between two adjacent desks, it was pastel grey in colour, bearing a small entrance adapted to his size, and flanked by two identical-looking squares. He pulled his chair away from under his desk, hung his laptop across one of the two hooks in the minute space, and waited. Nick closed his eyes. Any moment now.

"Howdy, neighbour!" A thick frontier accent roused him and he counted to five in his mind before turning around; Lewis. His colleague. A fellow intern, hopelessly friendly and naive, and utterly unbearable. He turned to him. The otter wore a wide and almost menacing grin, and beneath either of his round, brown eyes, his nose twitched away, "How are ya doing this fine morning?"

"Well, I was doing great..." Nick looked away as he began sorting through his papers, listing his day's assignments, which included copying down an entire spreadsheet by hand because someone in the accounting department had lost their hard drive, somehow. He raised his eyes at the otter and gave an utterly innocent but devastatingly cynical smile, "Until you appeared."

"Ah, Nicky, always the joker!" He despised that nickname, and the friendly jab he received on the shoulder prompted his brow to knit itself into an expression of utter frustration, "I'm doing great myself!"

"Ain't that a...thing." The fox couldn't even think of a witty quip on the spot, and he cursed himself for it under his breath, despite the fact that the otter would either take it as a sarcastic joke or not comprehend it at all, "If you don't mind, I'm gonna skip off to the break room and get some coffee." He got up and walked towards the glass square at the end of the passageway, housing fridges, microwaves, and an assortment of other, similar devices when he stopped and turned to Lewis; don't do it, don't you dare let those words pass your fucking lips, "Want anything?" Idiot. He bit his lower lip; why did you ask him such an obviously pointless thing?

"I'd like some...crackers." The otter raised one of his paws and began listing away on his fingertips, and Nick rolled his eyes. This was going to take a while, "Oh! And some coffee. Maybe...some gummy fish as well?" Nick checked his watch less-than-subtly, "Yeah, coffee, crackers, and gummy fish." Nick nodded slowly and turned, "And don't get lost in the jungle, Nicky!" Oh great, he sighed, muttering, now he thinks you're his friend.

The shuffle of his slowly-dragging feet sank into the chaos around him. Initially, he stood tall, moving in a prompt and businesslike manner, but the closer he got to the break room, through rows of desks where his co-workers spilled over into the passageway, swapping swift sentences, uttered commands, and clipped papers, his feet began to drag, and his paws found his pockets. Fuck this, he thought to himself. A small paper airplane passed over his head just as a wide-bodied elephant, perhaps the one he had seen earlier, almost fell forward directly before the door to the break room. He watched as she picked herself up and collected the papers she held, and at once, the beat and shuffle of her step resumed, to power onwards, to her goal. Temporary setbacks. It was chaos, and all he could do was stand in the middle of it all, and survey. Fluttering paws running frantically along the folded edges of paper reports, eyes and faces darting to and fro, and above it all, he stood there, with his paws in his pockets; Nick did not belong. This was not his world. It was a controlled demolition of the self for the sake of some goal no-one in the room could put their finger on, and despite the fact that he hadn't asked, the blank stares that persisted in their eyes as they struggled against the tides of havoc told him all he needed to know. The fox crept forward slowly and tried his best to dodge any incoming projectiles, but none had passed even close to him; someone had tossed a balled-up printout of what he imagined to be a cancelled article across the room, and the fox watched with glee as it struck the floor supervisor in the eye. The entire room seemed to fall silent in an instant, and all turned to the injured, suit-wearing snow leopard. Garret Edwards was an imposing man, and the shivers of fury which ran up his contorted neck as he stood only made him appear more built and pressed for battle. He raised an index finger and moved it across the room. Surely no-one would be mad enough to stand up.

"Whoever threw that..." Edwards did not speak so much as he spat, and his voice shook, "In my office, immediately!" Once again, no-one stirred. Nick sat frozen in half-step, eyes locked on the snow leopard as he tried his hardest to not breathe loudly or make a sound beyond that of a breeze passing through the bristles of his fur. Invisible, he thought to himself, not a fox, not here. Not a fox, not present. At last, a camel in the far row of the room stood up, rising in an ungainly manner on his long, spindly legs, and he raised a finger meekly to complain, but was at once confronted with Edwards' threatening digit as he pointed to a small, black, rectangular door to his immediate left. The camel scurried quickly and in an obedient manner, and he seemed to bend under the supervisor's stern gaze. The door closed with a thud, and the havoc resumed, as if someone had pressed play on a VHS remote. More papers took flight, sometimes flanked by pencils, phone calls were answered in a hurry and closed in an even greater rush, and all Nick could hear as he walked to the break room was the rapid beating of his own heart. Being the usual suspect took the energy out of him like nothing else.

The soft thud of the door as he closed it with his back and slipped down it slightly elicited a sigh from him, and he promptly straightened himself, dusted his shirt off, and made for the vending machine. Coffee, crackers, gummy fish, and another coffee for him, as tall as he could make it. And black. Blacker than the blackest night. Blacker than the blackest black that had ever blacked. A laugh passed over his lips while he entertained himself by watching the tar-like substance pool in his paper cup. He was already on the task of fetching everything he could from the vending machine by standing in the middle of the two devices, and operating one with his left, and one with his right paw. It was a simple matter of inserting a coin, dialling in two consecutive codes. He sorted the snacks and coffees on the kitchenette counter-top and thought for a second. Snacks in either pocket of his trousers, and double-fisting the beverages. Before long, he was on the move again, pushing the door with his knee as he stepped into the office. This time, he chose to ignore his surroundings, and he hurriedly made for the cubicle. Lewis was waiting, still rolled out into the passageway by means of his chair, and Nick passed the drink to him wordlessly before setting his own down, and picking both requested snacks from his pockets.

"Thank y'all very much." Lewis responded, and reached up to give a tip of his imaginary hat; utterly insufferable. You can take the boy out of the province, but you can't take the province out of the boy, "So, how have you been?" The otter spoke with a mouthful of crackers which spilled liberally across the front of his shirt.

"Fine." Nick shot back tiredly; absolutely not the time for small talk.

"Did ya see the game last night?" His co-worker pressed and seemed to ignore the gentle shake of Nick's head, "Oh it was fuckin' amazing! Holy shit, I've never seen the Zootopia Unions fight like that." At that point, Nick was unaware whether the game in question was hockey, football, soccer, or skee-ball, but the otter didn't care in the slightest, "Really gave the Cedar Nuts a run for their money."

"Lewis, the Cedar Nuts are an all-squirrel team from a province so far divorced from reality that it would've been incredible if the Unions hadn't pounded them into the ground." That much he knew for sure, but only because he had once caught the title of an article in passing while skimming his Furbook; something relating to domestic violence charges and one of their...quarterbacks? He wasn't even sure. But what he did know was that it prominently featured the photo of an unsettlingly well-built squirrel in a helmet and shirt. "Quarterback" sounded professional enough, but he resisted the urge to try and smooth-talk his way through such a dull conversation. On top of that, Cedar Grove was an inland town, and an utter shit-hole. He spent one summer there at camp, and as he listened to Lewis defend himself from such a heinous attack on his own love of sports, all Nick could think of were the wasp stings he received when he accidentally mistook a wasp hive for an archery target. Well, not accidentally. Truth be told, he was showing off, but the memory of it elicited a soft, restrained smile from him; and he did end up getting some from that fox girl in shack 4C. They most certainly weren't up all night "patching wounds", he mused. Happier times.

Eventually, Lewis' energy tapered out, and he opted to munch on his crackers quietly before giving Nick an insufferably upbeat wave of the paw and turned to his own work. This was Nick's cue to take a look at his desk for the first time that day. Squarely in the centre of it sat a stack of papers riddled with post-it notes, underlined and crossed-out passages, and photographs to be scanned, attached to the article, and put up onto the page. That last part wasn't in his job description, but he imagined that with the pressure the IT department was put under today, it would wind up in it before sundown. He sighed and placed his forehead into the arch of his paw. Closing his eyes, he tried to feel something beyond resentment for everyone and everything around him. Nick reached into his pocket, and fetched his earbuds, along with his phone. Lazily he scrolled through his assortment of albums and playlists until he found something that suited his mood; "Fuck work". Folk rock to get him as far away from his present surroundings as possible. He was rather creative with naming his playlists. "Fuck my life" shone beneath that title, followed by, "Fucking: Prelude" (designed to get a certain rabbit in the mood by means of soft piano track and gentle-sounding crooners, bellowed from his phone dock), "Fucking: The Act" (He played that one only once, when Judy had agreed to it, and while he thought it was the best sex of his life, she appeared annoyed, so he didn't ask again), and finally, "Fucking: The Aftermath", divided into volume one and volume two. Volume one was for cuddling purposes, and volume two was for fast clean-ups before any major social events. For some reason, stage fright and pressure always seemed to get his wife in the mood, and he wasn't one to say no. So they would have a session of messy lovemaking on the living room sofa, or the coffee table, or, and this was only once, on the kitchen floor. After that, it was down to the hardcore electro beats to help them clean the stains and discarded clothes, and get ready as quickly as they could. He locked his phone with a click and went about his business of sorting papers.

Article, article, glamour article, political article, crossword, article, spreadsheet...it went on forever. At last, he reached the bottom of the stack, only to find a set of forms looking back at him. Clean and without marks, he looked it over. A single post-it note. He read it slowly. "You left this in the printer. Also, congratulations! - S." S? Who in fuck's name was that? And how did he or she know it was his? The handwriting was alien to him. But at least they were kind enough to deliver it to him. It was an electronic form he had filled out with all the relevant details save for the signatures; atop it shone a seal. Zootopia Child Care Services – Adoption Centre. A mouthful, but ever since that department came into his life, he had nothing but profound respect for it. It outlined a number of details. Parent jobs, a form certifying that their residence had been visited and inspected by a social worker, signed and stamped and appropriately dated, but only a photocopy, biometrics of either parent, psychiatric certification, and at the core of it all, the matching form; he and Judy were looking for either a fox or a bunny separated from their biological parents for any reason, between two months and five years of age, and all the other details were irrelevant to them, save for a note at the bottom that read "longest on the waiting list". He closed his eyes. Life was on-track. It was set in motion a long time ago. A couple on the living room sofa, newly-engaged to be married, and discussing the possibility of kids. The whole topic began as a joke, a quip between the two of them spurred by an off-the-cuff comment he had given early in their relationship; "You'd be a great mom." All of it became serious very quickly, and rather than submit to the tyranny of incompatible biology or attempt expensive gene splicing procedures, they'd take the plunge on adoption. For weeks after they had reached a mutual agreement on the matter, Judy glowed. He was no different. Father to be. To hear those words one day: dad. It was all that mattered. Always look out for number one. Judy, the nameless tyke on the way, and a great beyond with new challenges, but greater rewards to be reaped. Everything felt right. There was, of course, a persistent fear he had held for a long time now. One of growing "old and boring". But as he challenged the blank line at the base of the form with his gaze, he looked up, at the photo of Judy he kept on his desk. If to grow old and boring was the end result here, there was no-one he'd rather do it with, and he knew she felt the same way. And no matter what, the energy within him would not wither. His paws would not slow and his tongue would not dull. At the end of the day, family life did not mean giving up oneself to the altar of old age. It merely changed its form, as it always did. To die a child, he mused, and nodded; he would.

A long time ago, Nick spent an afternoon in an art museum. This was before Judy; before the world made sense. A break in his daily "hustle" left him without an objective, and he snuck into the museum. Tricking the machines at the entrance was trivial. He wasn't there to steal, but merely to pass the time. Long, low orange lights crept across the polished museum floor. Marble, clean cut, and radiant too, surrounding the artworks around him in an almost heavenly glow. At the end of a long passageway, flanked on either side by twisting abstracts and complex masterpieces, lay an almost forgotten-looking statue. Bronze, and tall, jet black, it told of old age and relegated oblivion, but also a sense of providence. A simple, silhouetted figure. Two bodies joined at the side, with one leg belonging to each, and one shared leg in the middle of it all. Two heads, but one purpose. One step to take together. It became the most stunning work he had ever seen, and he found himself in its clutches even today, the fur on his upper back rising with reverence and respect. Providence. And now it was all coming true. To raise a new life as one.

The fox always put a bit of elbow grease into his signature, but this time, he opted for a more ceremonial approach. Simple, and to the point. After all, his signature was the first, shaky step into an uncertain future. And despite everything that had consumed his being since this morning, he would secure it. His paws would not slip this time. Prophecy mingled with manifest destiny. If the world was formless, God was dead, and we were all but tailors of our own purpose in this world, his paws would not slip. There lay no top-floor offices or expensive suits, fast cars and a life lived in oblivion before him. Purpose had come to him now: Judy.

In that moment, the signature was not a trail of ink on paper; it was the very first nail he had struck into the foundations of a definite home.

* * *

"You may now kiss the bride." Judy had rewound this moment perhaps over twenty times that day. Turn to the camera, smile for a moment (hers affectionate and glowing, his challenging but proud), and then Nick pulled her in, bowed her back into a tango dip and stole a kiss more passionate and loving than any other which came after it. She lay on the sofa in her blankets, curled into herself, and kept spinning back the DVD as far as it would go. Fifty minutes of footage, from the papers being presented at the rector's office, to the ceremonial reading of it, to the signature, and finally, a part of the walk down the office steps, smiling kisses on the cheek, teary-eyed relatives, Nick's mother standing beside Judy's parents, and the radiance of it all faded into a blank screen, marred by a square in the top left corner. Replay? Judy looked at the blank screen. There wasn't a moment of this disk she did not know by heart. Once Nick had left for work, she found a creeping cold within herself, and it grasped at her heart. This wasn't the first time she had felt it, of course. Into each life some rain must fall, she recalled and hummed along to the tune rather slowly. But whenever it did, this was her escape. She kept the disc inside a box beneath their bed, with all of her other memories, and beside Nick's identical case. It was an ossuary of moments she would never get back. Of uncertainty, of self-doubt, but always of a greater outcome. The last part was lost on her today. The bunny sank deeper into the small fort of pillows she had made for herself. On her bare chest she wore one of Nick's favourite shirts. It was a simple Hawaiian, but for some reason that was utterly beyond her, he always wore it. But it smelled of him strongly. And that's why she opted to wear it or hug it whenever she missed him. Today that feeling was stronger than ever. Now she could smell each little recess of his arms, his form, his fur, each tiny aperture she had become so familiar with in the grand edifice of his being. It was a thought that hadn't ocurred to her frequently: knowing one's own body. She knew hers to a tee. The pains, the aches, the fleeting pins and needles in her feet from sitting for too long in one position, to the way it responded to emotion. Raised bristles of fur whenever something grasped her attention, scared her, or drew awe out of her, warmth in her cheeks and neck when pleasant feelings came in force, moisture between her thighs, in that narrow, pink gash hidden expertly beneath a trimmed tuft of fur whenever he kissed her with pressure, passion, and direction, and the weight of concrete in her lungs and a dull ache in her gut when everything appeared to sit at the verge of collapse. Teetering along a fine knife-point edge. Threatening to spill and shatter.

But she knew Nick's body just as well. This was something she became aware of just now. Whenever he experienced a pain, he would voice it, point it out, and map it, but never at once. It was a mosaic to be assembled from memory and experience. At times she would test it. Romance and sexuality provoked the expected response from his nethers. Firmness, and wetness as his slick, canine shaft rose out of its musky sleeve. But there was more beyond that, until it almost became secondary. His cheeks would grow almost rosy as he watched her from above and below, eyes fixed on her as she bounced and shifted beneath him and atop him, writhed under his touch just as he did under hers, and each press and push elicited another moan or growl, rising from the depths of his throat. The mesh of muscles in his chest, arms, and back that contorted as she hugged him. The drop or flatness in his ears depending on how he felt, sometimes standing eagerly to attention, and at others falling with disappointment, anger or sadness. She had seen it that morning. Mosaic. Pieces of a puzzle strewn amongst a thousand other ones, but his edges she could always find and define with remarkable clarity. Wry smiles, coy grins, classic Nicholas. And there wasn't a single piece of him she didn't love. The bad ones were there, too. His short temper, quick to flare under pressure, lack of concentration when discussing matters he considered tedious, his wandering, provocative gaze, sometimes skirting the edges of her form as he sought to divert her attention from matters of immediate importance. Jokes, one-liners, long-form stories he would weave and spin, some of which she knew had never happened but were amusing regardless. To Nick, life was a long stage show, and she felt impossibly pleased to be one of the sole audience members to remain perpetually gripped by it. But now it seemed to unravel before her. All of it. Floor lifted, machines exposed. Churning gears to tell the tales of their highs and lows. The deeper she sank into the soft-edged images of him at his best and warmest, the closer the freezing fingers crept. They had been close behind the whole day, but now, she could resist them no longer.

Red fox. Two words. Noted down strictly and responsibly, at the base of the analytics page. In Nick's absence she had been convincing herself to glance over that file; it was her responsibilty. Judy had never missed her preliminary findings report. Not once. Every case had a clear-cut set of clues hidden in the forensics and analysis of it, and she would always have a stack of papers ready for Bogo and his desk jockeys the day after. Her insight wasn't considered particularly valuable by her co-workers, but she blanked that fact in favour of feeling grand about herself. ZPD's first bunny officer. There was no room for fuck-ups, especially when dealing with a case as serious as this one. No telling how long they would spend pouring over every detail. And now she had her haunches pressed into herself, arms around her knees, staring at a blank screen on the television. Weak. Nick had said otherwise. Weak, weak, weak. Internal state of the agent defines everything. And she had not told him exactly what had plagued her. Of course, he had seen the photographs. There was enough room to assume from there, but beyond that, a hollow, empty ring in a sound-proof room. How would she tell him? I'm afraid. That's what she would say, and she already did. But there was so much more contained in that one word. Afraid of what? Loss, pain, death. To lose him. To lose the sense of direction she had in life and which he held within himself. Nick did not define Judy. That name. Judy. Juds, as he called her. All she was, condensed into a call-out. But he did not define her. Beyond the filled-in boundaries of her life extended patches of colour where he would never tread, and those would remain complete and untouched even if he...she did not want to even consider the word. But without him, she would be palpably less. That much was apparent to her, and now became a weight deep inside of her. The swaying pendulum of impending defeat. A race against time itself, lost before it even began. Blood, bullet to the lungs. Alive at one moment, gone forever at another, sand between her fingers to catch onto the delicate strands of fur between them as he sank away, piece by piece. There was an irrational split-second in which she considered calling him just to hear his voice. But it vanished as soon as it appeared; after all, the only thing she needed to bring him back to her, even for a second, was a breath of that shirt.

Judy stood to her feet and paced, back and forth, as the DVD player entertained itself by buzzing and flickering. Apparently the HDMI cable needed replacing, but she hadn't found the time to buy a new one. Nick was terribly bad with technology outside of his phone. One evening, while they were halfway through a semi-decent horror film, the picture vanished but the sound remained, and her husband appeared utterly perplexed by this fact. All he did was sigh in frustration, roll his eyes, and declare his intention to buy a new player. So she crawled behind the TV and after less than two minutes, she held in her paw the faulty cable. He had not understood what she was insinuating. Of course, being as stubborn as he is, he remained adamant in his pursuit to buy a new DVD, which he did. A budget one, worse than their old one, and without its own cable. So now she had two DVD players, a broken cable, and a stubborn fox with his mind made up about buying a new TV instead. But this entertained her. There were no hard feelings on her part. They could spare the money, and always sell the spare or use it if the original broke down, and after all, it was an impossibly Nick thing to do. She surveyed the television from the kitchen as she poured herself more tea. A heat had crept along her back and neck and Judy almost felt as if she had a fever. She knew she didn't, but the light-headedness only made it worse. On top if it all, the file still glared at her from the table. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Not an excuse, she reminded herself as she walked a rather slim but palpable loop around the offending folder. This was proper cause for her to rest. Gather her strengths and rally, return the next day when she was stronger, more able to fight it all off.

Hours passed in a silent stupor. She switched from channel to channel, having found nothing of interest. There wasn't anything that grasped her attention. Not even the promise of video games on her laptop appealed to her. A lot of it was violent, and some of her favourite games entailed shooting "bad guys". Judy hovered the cursor over the icon but did not click it. Instead, she went to Furbook, to an assortment of sites she used to pass the time. And she avoided news sites like the plague. There wasn't a shadow of a doubt in her mind that the case had already been plastered everywhere. Nick was probably already working away at the stories, sorting, editing, changing out paragraphs. Sometimes she would read articles on the Zootopia Daily Times page and wonder whether or not he had something to do with it, and if he did, to what extent. Time slipped away from her. Scrolling up and down Furbook and playing various brick-laying and coin-clicking games was one hell of a time-waster. The bunny sank into a stupor of sorts. Click here, click there, plant a row of these, a row of those, and pass twenty minutes doing something else. Eventually she had exhausted every resource she had and went back to talking with a few animals from her home town; her mother kept sending her messages featuring songs she found on YouTube and various pieces of outdated internet humour and Judy would respond with pretend-laughter. She could only imagine how much her parents missed her. At times she would think back to her life at the farm, but she felt homesick only infrequently. After all, home had become somewhere else. Just as she prepared herself to rise from the sofa again and make for the bathroom, her phone rang. Judy lifted it and took a glance at the screen; Nick.

"Hello?" Her voice bore the weight of exhaustion; sitting idle on the sofa all day made her yawn, and she briefly considered taking a nap, but decided against it. No time to risk another nightmare. Judy dreaded sleep.

"Hi, whiskers." Noise seeped through the mellow tones of his voice, and it seemed that he was in a crowd of sorts, "I'm leaving the office just now and I've got a surprise for you." Judy smiled to herself. Of course. She moved forward on the sofa and lay on her stomach as she talked to him, muzzle propped up on the armrest and eyes gazing aimlessly at the base of the landline; they had one, but she could not for the life of herself recall why. It was by Nick's insistence. For someone who was as up-to-date with matters of culture, he was ridiculously old-fashioned in other terms.

"What's the surprise, then?" He had been silent for a few moment, and all she could hear were hurried good-byes and his panting breaths as he stepped outside. Wind beat against his phone and it crackled into her ear, but all she did was roll onto her back and gaze at the ceiling; cracks. They really ought to fill them in soon.

"You'll see. I'll be home in..." Another pause; he was checking his watch, obviously, "Ten or so minutes. Get ready. And before you make me idle in front of the house for twenty minutes, no need to dress in anything fancy. Just the usual fare, cottontail." This elicited a soft chuckle and a nod from her.

"Well, you've got my curiosity at any rate." Judy steaded the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she got up to look through their closet, "See you soon. I love you!"

"Love you too." Nick always put a bit of a sing-song twist on those three words, sometimes four, and it always made her smile. But now she bit her lower lip as she rifled through her clothes. Not wearing anything other than Nick's Hawaiian meant that she had no free pockets. The phone would be fine on the floor, she reasoned. Dresses hung beside pressed shirts and formal clothes of various shapes and sizes, and the bunny tilted her head in thought. Eventually she opted for a pair of simple jeans and a pink button-up shirt. Standing before the long mirror, attached to one of the closet doors, she looked over herself, smoothing out the hem of the pink garment with her paws. Pleasantly friendly, but somehow too provincial. Judy shook her head. Silly thought; how does one go about looking "cosmopolitan"? She waved the matter off and set out to collect her purse and belongings before Nick got there.

The car ride they shared was mostly a silent one, save for small talk about his day and a brief rant by Nick on the topic of corporate ladders and promotions. As she got in the car, she spotted a stack of papers in the back. In the back of her mind, the idea that she had forgotten about something rang out faintly, but she pushed it back.

"So, what's the surprise?" Judy chimed in as Nick leaned forward and observed the changing colours above them. The differences in vehicle height in Zootopia meant that some stop-lights were too high for the smaller cars. This caused a lot of leaning, and a plethora of angry letters to the Mayor's office. It was such a widespread problem that a great part of Lionheart's re-election platform was "stop-lights for everyone". Both denizens of the car considered the entire spectacle to be utterly inconsequential, but Lionheart seemed to be garnering only more votes with such inane promises.

"Remember that quaint little coastal restaurant where we went on our second date?" He asked as he wound a corner and twisted the steering wheel in his paws, and Judy instantly went wide-eyed at the suggestion.

"Ralphio's?" All her husband did was give a gentle nod of affirmation, "You didn't! They're booked solid on every day save for Christmas."

"Oh I did." He blew along his claws nonchalantly and chuckled before turning to her and pecking her cheek, "Figured it'd cheer you up."

"Oh my God, I can't believe you, Wilde!" The bunny on the passenger seat couldn't stop smiling; their broccoli lasagne was the best she ever tasted, and the last time she did was during that second date of theirs. Given the traffic the restaurant got, she never thought she'd eat it again. A gentle paw nudged his shoulder excitedly and all he did was keep grinning to himself. He had fully anticipated such a reaction, and getting it was all that mattered. Nothing made him happier than seeing her like this. The first parking garage they tried was chock-full, but the second one promised at least twenty vacant places. She seemed to vibrate with excitement as she walked beside him, and he took her paw. They strolled down the boulevard leading towards the North Burrows Park. The establishment in question was fairly close to their house, but the long, winding downhill route was too arduous to walk back up late at night, and as Judy was convinced, too dangerous; statistics don't lie, she'd repeat, and all he did was nod obediently, despite promising to stay out of her way if they were attacked. After all, she was the reigning academy champion of paw-to-paw combat. Getting involved in such a scuffle would probably throw her off her balance and cause them both to get stabbed for their jackets.

The entire boulevard glowed with electric lights, bistros and bars speckled along either side of it, with signs flashing in the windows. Some advertised the possibility of watching live sports games, while others promoted "happy hour" and bore a list of prices; flashy cocktails for the price of a simple whiskey straight, three hours, every Saturday night. Music boomed from some, while others played host to friendly and down-to-earth conversations regarding anything and everything, usually led on the pavement in front of their doors, over cigarettes and beers. Judy would occasionally follow one of the patrons with her eyes if they grasped her interest, but beyond that, she merely gazed out before herself and kept pace with Nick. He seemed utterly disinterested in his surroundings. Paws in his pockets, gaze fixed forward, and dodging incoming pedestrians, some of whom seemed to be in a staggering hurry given the hour and day. The couple walked past a series of shops, and found a pair of antelopes arguing animatedly before a Saharan mini-market. Nick's ears perked for a moment but they walked past the clamour and crossed the street at the edge of Zootopia's Central Park. It was a massive complex of trees and biomes, from desert landscapes maintained by means of tall heat lamps, to spots and patches of frozen ice where the Tundra residents of the Central District came to relax and wind down after a long day; however, the vast majority of it was temperate in climate and well-suited to Summer walks. But now, as the Sun had begun to set, it was to be avoided, lest one wanders into an unfolding crime scene with no backup to speak of. At the four far corners of it lay small consignment areas, which included amongst their repertoire a news-stand. Judy walked past it slowly. Every headline presented prominently behind the shuttered glass front of it mentioned the massacre. It was everywhere. Some of the more sensational papers, such as Zootopia Wild!, a notorious tabloid, ran a headline along the lines of "WINTER HORROR-LAND" or "BLOOD-BATH BEYOND THE ICE WALLS". The bunny hung her head low. Not now. Why would they put these on open display like this? One particularly tasteless publication even ran gruesome photographs, pixelated only in the very slightest. Of course, it was all clear-cut and obvious. Narrow your eyes and the image emerged from beyond the mist. Her features contorted into a grimace. It was a pleasant, calm evening, and not even the distant howl of sirens and running cars could distract her from the warm feeling of Nick on her arm and the chance to take a break from it all.

But now, expectation had set down on her shoulders again: fix the world. It is your job to protect and serve, she recalled, the very first speech given to all recruits at the academy. A summary of purpose despite them all having come there for that distinct reason. Protection had failed. Service remained as her sole escape, and hers lay bundled up on the kitchen island. To be avoided. Judy wished she could drive a wooden stake into the space between herself and her work. To shut out all emotion and for once, fight for what was utterly pressing without having to perpetually look inwards. But the eyes followed her. Each pedestrian they passed after meeting the kiosk seemed to look into her. Their eyes seemed to focus on the bunny and narrow in disgust. How could she? Failure. Failure to divide, to repress, to fight on. Weak. And so came dinner. Nick ordered slowly, and he raised the menu up to the cheetah that had come to take their orders, as if he was insinuating that her eyesight was failing. In public, he had very little concept of manners. But to Judy, it appeared deliberate. Gauge the reactions of those around him, including shock and bewilderment. But her thoughts were elsewhere. Even the taste of that divine lasagne did not cheer her up, and Nick noticed. His ears appeared cast downwards as he listened to her scrape the plate with her fork. From one extreme to the other in a matter of moments.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, and Judy shook her head. Nick sighed. Before it had even fully passed his lips, she looked up at him, "What?"

"Don't be like that." Don't take it out on him, he didn't do anything; but the reminders seemed to do very little. Even if Judy had passed her entire day lounging about on the sofa, she felt stressed. It wasn't from too much work, but from a distinct lack of it.

"Like what?" He dropped his fork and crossed his arms. His gaze stiffened and turned challenging.

"Look, we're here to have a nice dinner." For a brief moment, their glances met across the table, but she deflected and looked down at her half-eaten meal, "And, no. I don't want to talk about it."

"When will you?" This was just cause for her to glare at him angrily, "All I want is to help you."

"You can't. Because you don't understand."

"Then help me understand!" This time, his voice had raised itself slightly, and he pleaded with her, but her response was to close her eyes and take a deep breath, "Let me in. I can't help you if you don't let me in."

"I need..." Her paw balled itself up beneath the table cloth, and she could feel her teeth gritting against one another; why was he pushing this? What was there for him to know? To bring him into this was only to liken him to those she never had the power to save. If only she were quicker, faster. If only that fucking red light hadn't held their car up at a critical moment, "I need to be alone."

"And what am I supposed to do in the meantime, huh?" He just wouldn't quit it, "Watch my wife fall deeper into herself while leaving me with nothing but the ability to sit and watch? I thought you'd at least tell me someth-" A soft bang cut him short, and the rattle of cutlery pierced the silence; she had banged her fist against the table.

"Nick, enough." Judy had lost all of her appetite in a single moment, "I said I don't want to talk about this." She stood; it was a declaratory motion, chair scraping back against the carpeted floor, and fork dropped unceremoniously onto the plate, "I'm going out."

The bunny snaked her way through incoming patrons and burdened waiters and made for the door. The air stung at her. It wasn't even that cold, but she pressed her paws under her shoulders and shivered a bit. Beside the door stood a lion clad in a waiter's outfit, smoking a cigarette. Judy had composed herself enough to ask him for one, but as soon as he had lit it for her, and looked away, she could feel a warm wetness forming in the corners of her eyes. She had yelled at him. In public, too. What the fuck is wrong with you? A drag dotted with shivers followed by an equally uneasy exhale. You fucking idiot. You've hurt him. Pull yourself together. Get your shit together. Judy paced up and down the pavement.

"I didn't know you smoked." Her head shot up and she froze; of course he had followed her, "Never thought I'd see the day where you'd leave half of a Ralphio's broccoli lasagne." He moved into her field of view and stood beside her with his paws limp at his sides, "I'm sorry." One of them swiftly found its way to her cheek and took to caressing it, and she shut her eyes, looking away; the depth of the chasm within her appeared incalculable. Judy resisted the urge to demand that he not look at her. Not like this.

"Nick..." The bunny took a step forward and looked up at him; the full moon sat directly behind his head, giving him an appearance verging on saintly. Saint Nicholas, "I'm the one who should be apologizing."

"Not at all." His arms wrapped themselves around her waist but kept her at a distance so he could look into her eyes while they spoke, "I'm the one at fault here. I pushed buttons which are best left alone."

"You're in the right." The gentle shake of her head betrayed everything Nick wanted to know; the pain, which appeared gone for a brief, radiant moment, had returned in force. "During all this, not once did I think to...to ask how you are?" Soft purple eyes locked onto him and blinked slowly.

"I didn't think it mattered." He reasoned, and this time she nodded the thought away furiously.

"Nick, it will always matter how you feel." Her paw rubbed up and down his shoulder. A gentle caress of all the things she could not put into words, "We're two people, but..." And she mustered a smile out of herself, "...there's a core idea of oneness to this. We give, and we take." Another pause drifted between them, during which they merely observed one another amorously, "So...how do you feel?"

"Helpless." It all vanished in a second and his ears sank low, folding downwards, "It comes from...you know." She did know; suicide. Neither was going to say it out loud, "Everything is too hard, too fast, and too quiet." His free paw, the one he hadn't held on her lower back arose between them, and he rounded an invisible object with his fingers, almost as if he were trying to feel out the edges of his feelings, "I feel as if I'm being hit by a perfectly silent cargo train of problems. And your silence doesn't help."

"I'm sorry, I should've..."

"No, you shouldn't have." He interjected before she had the chance to finish, "And you never will. Time is needed. Time in ample supply, and distraction." She nodded; you don't understand, she recalled, her own words now bitter on her tongue.

"Thank you." That was all she could muster before she lay his forehead against his chest and he embraced her in a more complete way, "I love you, Nick." Two soft bunny lips collided with his chin and he closed his eyes, smiling. In due time was the intended meaning. Unspoken matters never impeded their conversations. All they did was strengthen them. After all, Judy knew a hundred different ways to tell him something as simple as that.

"I love you too."

Beyond their embrace, the city murmured itself to sleep.


	4. Ingénue

Each moment of our lives is filled with a trillion glimpses of our own reflection. We behold ourselves in mirrors, in ponds, in the surfaces of puddles, but we never truly understand that it is us which dwells behind our eyes. Judy locked glances with herself in the bathroom mirrors; shades of purple mingled once more with traces of nightly bloodshot. It was another rough attempt at resting. Nightmares had pursued her only briefly, but then sank away into a form of nothingness, lightness, to be discarded. Abstraction. Rising and falling, but never getting anywhere, and with no clear plot to follow or pick apart. She spread the toothpaste thin, and a momentary downward glance revealed a strand of fur sitting out of place atop her head. Pointedly flattened, she had once more established a kempt appearance. Through the looking glass of their bedroom window, sunlight spilled inwards, striking the shower curtain. It broke upon the rough edges of the Venetians. Nick was still asleep, as he had the day off. She stood at the door and leaned against it, toothbrush sticking out of the side of her mouth, and her eyes drifted to the clock beside the bed. Seven thirty. Duty begins at nine, and closes at six in the evening, when she clocked out. The bunny walked towards her side of the closet and opened it. On a coat-hanger hung her police uniform, and she took it out. Skipping around the room nude, she collected her underwear and bra from beside the bed, where she had left them the evening prior. They had spent their Sunday night on their respective devices, occasionally sharing a thing or two they found interesting, and then prepared for bed together as they always had. Between slipping into the warm edifice of their bed and the moment of sleep, Judy had begun feeling hot, so she stripped and threw her garments over Nick's snoring form. Now she saw where they landed, in a line, a little distance away from one another.

Pointless details, but it kept her mind busy. And now she zipped her uniform up and beheld herself with a serious expression; for a moment, checking behind herself to make sure Nick was still far from waking, she stood tall and proud, as she did that first day. Stone-faced expression, paws beside her hips, straightened out arms, and backbone rigid; duty, honour, and commitment. It was time to seek out her badge. Of course, it was where she always left it. In an open display case atop their sole nigh-stand. As the bed lay adjacent to the wall, her side had no direct link to the floor, and the lone surface from which she took the insignia of her rank and file housed an alarm clock, Nick's contacts, and a book she had begun reading but never finished. "Heaven Beyond" by Rufus Fange. He was an acclaimed author, but she found it to be unbearably dull. Colourful prose mingled with utterly vapid characters, and despite the glorious landscapes he painted, it never made her feel anything. So she cast it away, but promised to herself to finish it. After all, how can one know good books if they hadn't read bad ones? Perhaps she had forced herself to not like it, she pondered as she set the mass of paper and ink down, and made for the kitchen. Inside the fridge sat a pair of grass and carrot sandwiches, one of which she consumed swiftly, and placed the other into a paper bag along with a banana and a bottle of juice. This was her lunch. Checking behind herself to once more make sure she was alone, she skipped to the far corner of the room and dug into a pile of old boxes. Nick had thankfully not seen her messing with it last night. Reaching into the dusty flaps, she recovered a small, cardboard square; cigarettes, but weak ones. The taste of the strong ones always made her tongue feel numb and threw up a racking cough inside her lungs.

Stowed in her pocket, they were sure to remain a secret. He already knew that she indulged in the odd nicotine high, but last night was an anomaly. Surely he would not begin to suspect that her, Judy Hopps, a woman adhering firmly to the straight and narrow, had begun engaging in such a thoroughly cynical and self-destructive habit. Good, she muttered, it was best if he didn't know. Certain parts of herself began crawling back into a spot where she didn't think she'd seek anything ever again: it was a nook in the very deepest recesses of her mind, filled with pain. The memory of her Grandmother's funeral had been stored there, in a form of numbness. The emotion she felt that afternoon, when her mother came to her with tears in her eyes, turned to distance; in a diary, written in the course of an atrocity too unbearable to think about more than once, a young girl doomed from the very start had said: "Dead people recieve more flowers than the living ones because regret is stronger than grattitude". A far-away din. The iron bell rang in another soundproofed room. Numbness was the order of the day as she swept the preliminary findings documents off the counter and into her arms, and made for the door. Usually, she carpooled with Nick when they worked the same days, but now she drove herself to work alone. Traffic was dense. Monday morning, animals hurrying to work. A yak cut her off in traffic. No anger to be found anywhere. Only silence. The ride was a solemn one. Behind each window lay another life. Were they too destined to be lost to a deranged criminal with a gun? Possibly. It was a train of thought that benefited no-one, so she suppressed it, and nodded her head to the rising and falling hum of the engine. It was best to stay within the speed limit.

Bogo was irate that morning, or at least he seemed to be. The bags under his eyes told more of his mental state than anything else, and as Judy took her seat, she saw him scanning the room beneath the shade of his raised hand. Cheerful conversation filled the air from the outset, but died down as everyone began to realize that this was going to be a loaded meeting. Of course, first order of the day lay before them. The folder. The one she could not bring herself to look at yesterday. Fuck. This was what she had forgotten. They'd all have to look through the notes while going over the newest evidence anyway. Panic grasped Judy. There was nowhere to run, no games on Furbook to cast her mind to some dulled, distant place where this couldn't reach her; she had to open it. Of course, she brought it up with herself, but it ocurred to her that it wasn't deliberate. It was a mental tick. Force of habit to grab whatever was on the back seat and bring it up with herself. Save for the papers Nick had left yesterday. They bore some sort of seal but her mind could reach no definitive conclusion about their origin. However, they did feel oddly familiar. It struck her; adoption papers. Judy sighed. Something forgotten. Blanked out in the half-spaces where darkness had invaded. It was on the list, as always. The lists she had made for herself, stored on her laptop, of the things she still had to attend to now appeared somehow insignificant, and she hadn't bothered to check them. One signature and that was that. A warm feeling struck her for an odd moment, but she let it go. Pressing matters. Nothing she could do about it now. So she opened the first page and swallowed hard.

"Good morning." Bogo rose and observed the crowd with either hand firmly on the surface of his desk; his head swayed from side to side like a suspicious surveillance camera, "No point in tarrying, ladies and gentlemen. I'll keep it short and sweet. First, the basics." He sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, and shot upwards, "We've got nothing. Not a fucking thing." It was odd for Bogo to swear during briefings, but this wasn't the first instance of it; usually, it was directed at someone that had been particularly adamant in their insistence to whisper or swap notes while he spoke. "Traffic cameras caught a van. We ran the plates. Half an hour later, we realised we didn't need to. Clawhauser, in his infinite wisdom, had bumped into it earlier that day. On fire. In an industrial lot." He drummed his digits along his side, "We sent out a unit to inspect the remains with Traffic, and found out that it was indeed our suspect vehicle. That was all the concrete evidence we had, and it went up in smoke. No prints, no blood, not even a stray fucking hair." He extended his hand and pointed to the door, "Out there, ladies and gentlemen, there's roughly ninety journalists waiting for me. I'm sure you saw them coming in." Judy had spotted the group in question reclining on the lobby sofas as if they owned the place, some furiously taking notes while others happily chatted away; vultures, "And they're gonna tear me to fucking shreds because we don't have a thing. No leads, one witness that saw nothing because he kept his head down, and bodies riddled with untraceable bullets. The casings revealed nothing either. Imported, it seems. No clue where from, but imported. Nothing in our registry." The bunny watched a row of ten black-furred fingers mesh atop the hardwood desk, "Your preliminary analyses may shed some light on the situation, though." Judy could feel a bout of heat work its way up her spine and spread across her head and neck; the very analysis which she didn't do. It was an unbearable itch on her brain, and her foot began working away beneath her, drumming against the chair leg. Restrain yourself, she commanded, but her muscles simply refused to listen. And the tapping continued, while she prayed under her breath that Bogo would not notice.

"There's nothing you can do about this, but I believe telling you about it to be the right thing to do. After all..." His gaze sank low, and skirted across the edges of the room before mowing down the front row like a machine gn, "Wouldn't wanna make anyone in here feel as if they didn't do right by the badge." There was a loaded pause, but no-one said a word; it was best not to challenge Bogo on anything. After all, executive authority lay in his hands and his hands alone, and it was by his will that they remained where they were, paid in a timely and orderly fashion, "Right, onto actual, important stuff that concerns you lot." And out came the red folders; covered in a leather of sorts, they each bore their names and assignments for that day. Judy would bring hers in every evening and leave it with Clawhauser at the front desk, that would then send them to some-place she did not see. Sometimes she wondered, but only briefly, where they went, and whose job it was to print out the next day's tasks, "Barton, Fangmeyer, Tillman, you're on Tundra today. Get in your heavy gear. Our armed guards in precinct 13 need additional reinforcements, and you're in." Judy sighed in relief; at least she wouldn't have to stand in freezing cold with a rifle over her shoulder, and one that was way too large for her anyway. As it turns out, they didn't manufacture them in a smaller size, and if push came to shove, one pull of the trigger would most likely send her flying off her feet. But a trained wolf officer, for example, could dig his paws in and unleash hell in a matter of moments. Right now, she had other matters to think about, namely the case before her. A filing slot sat on Bogo's desk marked "IN", and that's where they were expected to drop their preliminary findings. Usually this happened as a procession of police officers filed out of the room and down to the basement, where the garage sat, to drive to the locations of their assignments. Now it was a race against time, and she had to think. What was the best way to pass Bogo without him noticing one file less in the slot? "We've got Jungle patrol. That's Warren, Denachowski, and Martic." Of course, the elephant. She nearly slapped herself for not thinking of it sooner.

All Judy would do when the time came was stand between Elizabeth Denachowski, an elephant officer whose size exceeded even that of Bogo, and Reuben Martic, a broad-shouldered and proud tiger who almost always carried a briefcase. Between those two, she would become invisible. "Finally, Hopps, Ritter, Desola, and Laroche." Bogo had thrown a folder their way like he usually did, and it was Ritter who caught it in mid-air, the wolf so tall that all he had to do was lift either of his paws slightly, "You're on central duty today. Hopps and Ritter, you've got Harbourside. Desola and Laroche will take the upper North side. And that's that for this unit." With a slap of his hoof, the meeting was adjourned; this was all the footsoldiers got. Nothing more for them. They were a crowd-sourcing operation at best, designed to look through matters which may be simply forgotten about in the midst of the exhaustion and mental strains with which the detectives and forensics experts had to live with. And so began the parade. Judy waited. Between the pressing bodies, her eyes locked with that of Bogo; they were a deep shade of auburn that appeared to perpetually glow with irritation, and she did her best to glance away, but found herself unable. The cape buffalo had her pinned using his gaze alone, and hers appeared weak by comparison. A wholly unspoken arm-wrestling match unfolded, and she was powerless in it to the absolute. Uncomfortable smiles mixed with nervous flickering of digits and feet, and even a twitch of her tail, which only did so in situations of extreme danger. From where she sat, it appeared as if Bogo was going to push his way through a trigger-happy Fangmeyer and an utterly defeated-looking Tillman to get to her for the sole purpose of strangling her to death. From certain angles he did appear like a mass murdered waiting to slip into his breakout role, she mused, but the silent joke did not make her feel less cornered. Finally, it was her turn. Denachowski and Martic filed out, and she deftly slipped between them; while doing so, she had missed Bogo's gaze. It had followed her relentlessly, and he was fully aware of what she had done. Less than three paces from the door, a voice crawled into her ear.

"Hopps, in my office." Sternly commanded and without an ounce of emotion; she froze. Classic Bogo. Seconds turned to hours as she wound the narrow corner leading to the aforementioned office, and she pushed the door open. The buffalo stood with his back to the entrance and gazed out the windows, hand firmly on the shutter. The moment she stepped in, he closed the blinds with a flick of his index finger and thumb. Momentary silence covered everything, and she felt suspended in some form of transcendental state, between life and death. Between having her badge stripped for some unspoken transgression or being commended for her actions. Bogo had been perpetually hostile to her. The big case she solved two years ago, the one that had set her life in motion proper, had faded on him in terms of impressions. There was nothing to fawn over any more. Since then, cases came and went, but she was reassigned off them quickly, and reduced back to grunt work. After all, she was just an officer. There were more astute and experienced arms of the law to deal with such matters, and they usually did not do massive amounts of property damage while accidentally solving a major crime, like she did. In the time that had passed since the "feral" case had been shelved, she looked back upon it; truly, she and Nick did not do as much as was assumed, or as much as they were praised for. In hindsight, all of the evidence had fallen into their laps and it was a simple case of being in the right place at the right time. And Judy knew that this was Bogo's reasoning. To him, she was the usurper. The odd one out. Ruining the image of a perfect, able-bodied force. The buffalo had no illusions about affirmative action of any variety, and to him, matters of inclusion were no object. Appease those that commanded him, pulled his strings, and keep his position secure for an additional x years. Her case ensured that, but there had been no breakthroughs there since.

"No preliminary report, Hopps?" Of course he would grill her over this; even the most minor of irregularities became a major case for disciplinary action under Bogo. Her every move was subject to scrutiny, and she knew it, "Something is wrong." Judy sat in silence. Naturally, an answer was not expected, "I saw you after the incident. Tears in your eyes. I could see it from miles away." Now he was mocking her, "You're cracking up, aren't you?"

"Sir, no sir." Rigid and ready, Judy would not let herself be intimdated, not even as he paced around the desk and stopped before her, looking down from a great distance; he could see her comfortably from where he stood. No, Judy reasoned, this wasn't a matter of a vantage point. This was a power play.

"Yes, you are. I've seen the photographs." Surgical precision marked each pause and breath in his words. This was a verbal dissection. You cannot break an animal by beating it. The harder you beat it, the taller it stands. But define it clearly, outline its whole life in a series of brief words, and crush that idea before its eyes? Nothing remains. Not even a speck. "We have a John Doe on our hands. A fox." The way he spat those three letters made her eyebrows twitch, "Might be an innocent, but I doubt it."

"Sir, why sir?" She barely blinked at all but instead followed him with her eyes wherever he went, and however long he spent idling by the filing cabinet.

"Because he's a lousy, good-for-nothing fox, of course." The matter-of-factness in his tone made her wish for a taller, wider, stronger body, just so she could go digging for pressure points. Each body had them. The academy had thought them that. Seek them out, and you could disable a perp in under three strikes, "Speaking of foxes, how's your husband?"

"Sir, he's doing well, sir." It didn't matter. He didn't care.

"Is he? Because this could've easily been him." Bogo reached into his pocket and produced a photograph, which he held up before her nose; it was the one she had promised she would never see again. Blank eyes, vacant expression, an hour, one fucking hour spent expiring on a cold tile floor; to break an animal, you must break its spirit.

"Fuck you." No report this time. Bogo frowned for a second, and put the photograph away.

"Very well." Time stopped. Before she even knew what was happening, or how, Judy had been pinned against the wall. It was a tremendous strike, akin to a van striking her at full speed, and one she could not dodge. Without warning or motive. He held her, hand around her body, in a death grip. His eyes sat inches from hers and he exhaled forcefully, sending an invisible cloud of stench spreading outwards; bourbon and cigars. Of course he had met with Lionheart recently. The mayor shared his views, but not publicly, "Listen here you cottontail bitch!" Drops of spit struck her face, but her expression remained unchanged, "You be good and stay the fuck out of my way. Say nothing, do nothing, and don't get involved."

"Fuck. You." The bunny hissed, and she spat as hard as she could, striking him directly in the nose, "Eat shit and d-" Darkness. Pressure. Force, directed, in an instant. Her world spun. It rotated, rolled, called to her, and around her, a dark mire had grown from the very edges of her fractured consciousness. It was a forceful punch, and it had hit her squarely in the eye, but hardly full force. Any stronger, and he would've killed her on the spot. Power play.

"Now, then." He stood above her; an outline in the breaking light pouring from the punctures in the venetian blinds, "Are you going to behave?" He picked her up again. That dreadful cold, clammy sensation of his hands around her again, and this time, he had her pinned against his desk, "Or am I going to have to really mean it this time?" Blood poured from her nose. Every instinct in her body was screaming; run, run away. This was not a safe situation to be in. Disarmed, she had nothing to use against him. Not even a baton. And before she could react, at any rate, it was too late. Eyes above hers again, pupils narrowed to mere dots, ready to break her neck whenever he felt like it. To him, she was a toy. A fledgling rag-doll he could do anything to. For another moment, she fought against his grasp, but then came another strike, this time a simple nudge across her cheek with the back of his hand, but forceful enough to send her ears ringing, "Think about this before you do anything else." One of his fingers crept up her neck; the long, broad nail of atop his index finger dug into her skin, "That's your jugular. Passes four litres of blood a minute. You've got maybe one." His lips drew into a brutish grin. Bogo was enjoying this, "Ten seconds, and you'll be dead. That's before you can creep to that door and call for help."

"I'll..." Judy swallowed. Sheet metal. Blood, pouring down her throat, "I'll listen."

"Good." Eyebrows drawn into a frown, he leaned forward, "You're permanently barred from being involved with the case to any degree. Don't make me tell you what'll happen if I see you doing anything stupid, or asking the wrong questions. I'll write it up for you. 'Cannot keep her emotions separate from her work'." Lies. Her right eye narrowed, but her left returned nothing but a dull, pulsating ache, "'Too emotional for professional police work.' At best, you'll be a meter maid. At worst, you'll be a disgrace to your species." Bogo laughed. This was a game to him, and one he had been meaning to play for a very long time, "One less problem to worry about. Now I've got proof you're a liability. A psych evaluation should do it." His expression turned to stone once again, "You're a nosy little whore, you know that? There are great things afoot in this city, in this department, and its all bigger than you. The world doesn't need another bunny with a God complex to fuck things up for everyone."

"Kill me." It was a simple command, and he tilted his head to the side, confused, "Go ahead. I know you want to. You've been doing it in your head for twenty-seven months now." Judy had him now; roughing her up did nothing. Killing her would leave him with a stain that could not be removed, "Finish it. Do it, motherfucker. Press..." She shifted closer into the jagged edge up against her pulse, "Deeper!" There was no balance any more. Between the desk fading beneath her, or as much of it as she could see with her vision effectively destroyed, all she had to go on in terms of direction was the rushing air around her head. And then a crash. He had thrown her against a wall, and now she lay at its base, her own blood pooling on her uniform. One, two, three, four heavy steps, and he was beside her again, kneeling, almost as if he were pleading with her.

"Oh yeah?" He didn't need to hold her this time; too tired to fight back. Bogo knew her head was probably ringing like a struck drum, and the force with which she had hit the drywall, leaving behind a sizeable indentation, meant that her sense of balance was disabled for the time being, "I'll tell them you attacked me out of nowhere. 'Emotionally unstable' becomes 'mentally unstable' really easily. Especially..." Judy felt something roll up her sleeve; he wouldn't, "Given these." On her wrist lay the remnants of a horizontal incision, scar tissue, which she had made once, experimentally. Nick was out of town; he knew nothing of the hospital trip, the hush-hush she was given as part of the major's "special commendations" division, not a word of the whole affair. Even the note addressed to him was burned. Once he asked about the scar, and she told him of an accident involving a combine harvester during her youth. The effects on her duty were more palpable, though: one month of conditional probation and light duty, and it was never mentioned again. Judy didn't even begin to suspect that Bogo knew. But he had to. Personnel files were open to him. Naturally he'd go looking through hers to find a weakness. He must've been planning this for months. The rehearsed speeches, the canned lines, the posturing, it was all an act. Pressure points, and he had all of hers.

"'Lost her mind, attacked me, couldn't stop her. Drew her tazer. I had no choice.'" His tone was deeply hostile; more mockery, but barely any of it got to her. There was a hollow pressure of sorts on the outskirts of her skull, drawing inwards like magnets, until it became pain, and silence, manifesting itself as a draw to some form of sleep; was this what dying felt like? In her eyes, a word shone, one she could not speak coherently: evidence, "Washing my hands would be all the cover I'd need. Perhaps dip a night-stick into your blood as well, say it was a misjudgement of force in the midst of an immediate threat. Self-defence, either way." Bogo grinned again, "And who do you think they'd believe? The dead bunny girl whose downfall is clearly documented, or the stable, valuable, and diligent officer that had been collecting the pieces of this shit-show we call a precinct for nearly twenty-five years now?" The buffalo rose, walked across the room, and poured himself a tall glass of cognac; Judy could hear the rushing liquid from afar, but could do nothing about it, not even tilt her ears in its direction. But gradually, she was coming to. No fear remained in her body. There was nothing. Powerless. Stripped of everything. Bastard. Fucking bastard. All those thoughts brought was an idle twitch to her right paw and nothing more. She felt along her nose. It was fractured, and she couldn't breathe through it as it had swollen and filled with blood and gristle.

"Oh, and if anyone asks about this...say you fell down some stairs." Bogo stated dryly and laughed; it had a hollow ring to it, but it stuck with her. In a moment, he had turned to her again, but leaned casually against the drawer where he kept the drinks, observing as if nothing had happened; almost nonchalant, even as she stained his rug with her blood, "Don't even dream about telling anyone that it was me. If you do, I'll just say it was your husband." Judy's right pupil dilated at once; more? Wasn't she enough of a pawn in his sick game already? "Fox with a history of criminal behaviour?" Nick had none, but Judy knew it wasn't hard for Bogo to twist the facts on account of race and statistics, "Why not a wife-beater as well?" She leaned forward to get up and onto her feet, but found her head awash in a sea of pins and needles; the contents of her skull seemed to have turned into a fine, but heavy liquid that would rush forward with each motion of hers. But she managed. And now she leaned against the filing cabinet, clutching her right arm; it didn't hurt more than anything else, but it was the closest thing she could hold onto, "Not to mention it would ruin your chances." At this, she spun to him, which only made the ache worse.

"Chances...of what?" Breaths rushed in and out of her lungs but she had no control over them; hyperventilation. A rare, but well-documented consequence of a severe concussion, "No..."

"Oh yes." Bogo drank the entire glass in one, tall swing, and wiped his lips with his sleeve, "You try to adopt with a record of domestic abuse." Every muscle in Judy's body wanted her to lunge forward despite the ache, grab the nearest sharp object, preferably one of the pens from Bogo's own pocket, and ram it into the side of his neck until there was more of his blood than there was of hers. But the impotence of her own will shattered, aching limbs beneath her made her stumble slowly to the door, nodding. Just nod. Affirm. Say nothing, "Hold it." Just as she was about to depress the doorknob, he spoke again, and she turned, shuffling in place uneasily. The world swayed from side to side, and it appeared to her as if the left side of the office was going to collide with the ceiling, "I want a 'sir, yes sir' out of you. Just to make sure you heard me." He crossed his arms and walked back behind his desk, "Oh, and also a salute. If you would kindly." Judy wanted to usher in the last of her strength to raise her paw and give him the most satisfying, and probably the last middle finger of her life; but nothing came of it. She lined her feet up as best she could, just like they had taught her at the academy, and raised her right paw up, slowly. Blood dripped down her sleeve from her fingertips, coated in it from her clutching her nose.

"S-sir...yes, sir..." And so she saluted him. Bogo laughed as she pressed the door open and dragged herself down the hall. Behind her, drops of blood stained the tile, sometimes in twos, and sometimes just a single one, a jutting crimson witness to what had just happened. As she made for the corner leading to the main walkway, and down the steps, she paused, by the potted plant on the corner, and vomited. Carrots and grass. Duty. She had to get to the garage. The bunny shambled to the elevator as the light around her dimmed and swayed. At last, her balance had failed her, and with the very final pieces of her strength, she lifted herself up onto the first two steps leading to the next floor, and bled a little onto them, coughing for good measure. An act. Say you fell down the stairs.

Darkness prevailed, and she sank.

* * *

"Well, Mrs. Hopps, you're very lucky." That was her mother's name; Judy hated it when others addressed her that way. Between the beating drum that pounded away in her head, erasing all thoughts she could muster, and the persistent stinging that ran up and down the bridge of her muzzle, paying attention to the doctor was difficult. As was being annoyed at his tone. He had a deep, penetrating voice, and she observed his white coat sway with each motion of his tail, "It must've been quite a bad fall. Thankfully..." The doctor paused and reached for the x-ray illuminator; a gentle click drifted through the air followed by the low, distinctly electrical hum of neon, "The only thing you've broken was your nose." He motioned to the sheet with the back of his pen and Judy observed the curving, sinking lines of her skull, marred by the presence of a large spot in the middle of the picture. These were the contents of her nasal cavity, swollen and broken, now blocking her airways, "No signs of a skull fracture or any damage to the occipital bun or the supraorbital torus." Meaningless words, but she managed to catch where he was pointing, "There is also a hairline crack in your projecting midface, just below the large nasal cavity, but that shouldn't cause you much trouble as we've immobilized and numbed the entire area."

"Who brought me in?" The bunny had come to less than twenty minutes ago, and fifteen of those were spent waiting for the doctor to arrive; it was a thoughtless peace during which she felt adrift, broken only by the click of the door as the regal-looking green-eyed snow leopard stepped into the practice. In that moment of serenity, there were no accusatory thoughts to be found. Only the concern of how she would hide this from Nick. Judy had to. Otherwise he may do something irrational. But she knew that there was no way of doing so; the bruise on her eye was massive, despite not having used a mirror, and judging by the fact that she could not see anything, not even the faint outlines of objects, she had a feeling that it was utterly disarming to look at.

"Hang on a moment." He responded and glanced over the clipboard in his paw. The tip of his pencil trailed along the lines as he sought an answer, "One...Benjamin Clawhauser, but he was not alone." Terror gripped her at this; could it have been...him? "Otis Ritter." Judy exhaled loudly, and this caught the doctor's attention, but he said nothing, "We were very concerned about you, Mrs. Hopps." The bunny pressed her arms closer until she felt her paws on the sides of her shoulders, but it all ached. Bruises lay concealed beneath the stained mass of her uniform, and the deep crimson spot in the middle of it, growing gradually darker as time passed, was only further evidence of the fact that she had sustained a savage beating. But no. The true culprit were the stairs. Perhaps, in time, she would come to believe it as well, "No matter how hard we tried, you remained unconscious." The metallic name-tag sitting directly to the right of his lapel, just above his heart, read 'Dr. Eric Stahl'. Her eyes bored into it until reality tunnelled around it, and his words became a murmur, "You woke mere minutes before we were ready to declare you comatose." Judy held her gaze and he leaned into it a little bit, until they made eye contact from across the room, "Mrs. Hopps?"

"Sorry, I was...elsewhere." For a moment she considered shaking her head, but each motion of her neck brought pain in waves, "When can I go home?" This prompted Dr. Stahl to raise his eyebrows slightly.

"Well...this is highly unusual, as I have recommended you for a period of observation lasting at least 24 hours considering the severity of your concussion, but..." He checked his watch theatrically, "You're free to go immediately." Two white paws danced before her face, "But I would heavily advise against it."

"Why?"

"Concussions are an unusual thing, Mrs. Hopps." The illuminator faded itself back to sleep and the hum ceased, "They take on many forms. The severity of yours should not be understated." Stahl gave a wag of his pen to punctuate his point, but Judy kept her eyes on the floor, "A ruptured blood vessel we may have missed could lead to multiple complications as far as a week from now, up to a stroke. Clotting blood could dislodge itself from the wall of a minute blood vessel in your brain, travel some distance, and become stuck again, blocking a critical pathway." He walked to his desk and sat down behind it, adjusting his white coat on the way down, and crossed his ankles, "And we obviously don't want that. 24 hours of observation should make sure that you don't seize in your sleep or suffer any abnormalities in your cognitive or motoric abilities, some of which could also be lethal." Judy did not respond. A thought had birthed itself within her. Death was release from this. It was tranquillity, in which nothing hurt, where Bogo could not get to her, to fulfill his promise of killing her if he saw it fit to do so, "If we are to release you right now, you will have to sign a form."

"A form?" The questions kept coming, and to each, Dr. Stahl would nod sagely before responding.

"Liberating St. Sebastian's from liability in case of..." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Unforeseen circumstances."

"You mean death, don't you?" She stipulated faintly, and after another moment's pause during which Stahl said nothing, she watched him nod, "I'll sign it right now."

"A couple of things first..." He produced a legal pad from the top-most drawer of his desk and began writing on it, taking his time with each sentence to make it as legible as possible, "Avoid all screens for a period of about a week. Computers, televisions, mobile phones, everything. Reading is fine, but only for half an hour a piece, followed by a twenty-minute break. If you feel tired, weak, or suddenly faint, lie down. If this persists for a period of more than a day, even with sleep, call the hospital immediately. Also, any symptoms of disorientation, loss of balance, loss of coherence of speech, and numbness in any part of your face should be treated as a medical emergency." Symptoms of a stroke. Judy knew them. Her family bore a history of it, and both her grand-fathers died of a stroke in their late 50's. In her head, she could hear her mother's voice reciting those to her father like a litany, and he would affirm that he hadn't felt any of those in recent memory; vigilance, she would always warn. But now was not the moment for caution, "Avoid strenuous physical activity, and get as much bed-rest as possible. I have recommended at least one week of bed rest in the formal letter I sent to your workplace." Of course. A week for Bogo was enough for him to cover his tracks and bury the evidence. Erase the surveillance disks inside the building, pay off any witnesses, and leave it at that. Even if she were at work during that time, Judy knew what would happen if she interfered, "And that just about covers it. I'm prescribing you some heavy-duty painkillers. Three pills of dihydrocodeine 40 milligrams a day, and one 20 milligram tablet of oxycodone when necessary, but that is only for instances of severe pain." Another wag of the pen confirmed his words, "Eat before you take any of these, and if you take too many, call an ambulance and attempt to induce vomiting."

"Thank you, doctor." Judy stood to her feet and dragged herself to his desk; the world had ceased to spin, but the dull ache in her head became piercing as soon as she began to move, and it stung sharply, and she collected the instructions he had written, folded them for easier storage, and shoved them into her pocket, "I use the pharmacy on the ground floor, correct?"

"Yes." The doctor stood and extended his paw, which she shook, "Good luck, Mrs. Hopps." She thanked him for everything he did and made for the door, but he stopped her just before she left, "Take this." Between his index and middle finger lay a business card, and she lifted it, "It doesn't have to be like this. They can help."

Judy read it as she walked down the emergency room hallway. Zootopia Domestic Abuse Hotline. The trash can at the door of the pharmacy would be a good home for it, she mused idly as it drifted down. Two large cardboard packages rattled inside the plastic bag she was given, and she sat in the back of a cab parked at the main entrance of the hospital. Night had fallen. How long had she been out? Half past nine. Over twelve hours. Judy did not dare check her phone. Ten missed messages at least.

"North Burrows 144, please." The cabbie nodded but held his tongue; she didn't even rate a good evening. Even a wounded cop was still a cop. She leaned against the door and watched the houses shoot by with her good eye. They rocketed into a blur of sorts, and Judy felt over herself for her wallet; thankfully, it was still there. Twenty dollars should cover the ride. St. Sebastian's Hospital Of The Sacred Heart lay atop a steep hill on the Western side of the central district, and between it and home lay a series of narrow, winding streets, upbeat residential districts where each square foot cost roughly the same as a brand new car. Most buildings had roughly three floors, and took on the shape of a normal house from a distance, but up close their vastness became apparent. Countless rooms. Countless stories, lives lived. Nick. Nicholas. How would she tell him? Would she even tell him? You fell down the stairs. No matter how many times she repeated that sentence, it seemed nothing more than a thin lie. There was a good chance he would believe her, but if he did, she would be lying to her husband, the love of her life; and that was a transgression she would not bring herself to indulge in.

But he had a temper. There were moments where he would lose all grip on reality and plunge head-first into matters that exceeded his responsibilities, but this happened most of all when she was involved. Judy closed her right eye. There was a weekend once during which they went to visit her parents, the second time they had ever spoken to or seen Nick, just weeks before he would go down on one knee and ask the question that changed everything. Her uncle was there. Uncle Roy. A prejeduced ass if she had ever met one, and one glance of Nick was enough for him to condemn the union, as unofficial as it was, to the place where sinners were destined to go. All sorts of foul names rang out across the pasture of their back yard, and Nick had lost control. Screaming, shouting running, terrified eyes sitting in rows around them, a good distance away, watching as a strange fox strangled one of their family members. Long conversations followed, the likes of which she never thought she would have to lead. On top of everything else, her entire family, excluding her parents, had guilted Nick into apologizing to Roy, and the senile bastard even made him do it with a bowed head as a 'sign of respect'. There was a point to her thoughts, and she reached it quickly: if she told Nicholas what Bogo had done to her, there was a good chance he would struggle with restraining himself. A rapid jerk forward tore her from her thoughts. They had arrived.

"That'll be fifteen bucks, ma'am." The cabbie turned; a deer. The irony made her smile, almost, but all she did was pass him the twenty, and take the five he returned. And then came the long, solemn climb up the steps. Each of them appeared three times higher than it actually was, and at least twice as steep. Her energy bled out of her, pressed through a narrow hole somewhere in her form she could not place, or plug. It poured from her, and by the time she had reached her door, the stinging sensation within her head became a full-blown choir of agony. Screaming violins mingled with deep, potent drums and she fumbled with her keys. It swung open.

"...yeah, I spoke to him yesterday about the article, he said he'd have it ready in-" Nick had his eyes fixed upon an unfolded newspaper and was running his index finger across the lines as he spoke on the phone. The sound of the door opening was evidently too quiet for him to notice, but the sound of it closing grasped his attention. He looked at her, and his eyes widened sharply in an instant, "Lewis, I have to go." The click of the phone being hung up echoed through the silence, followed by a dull thud as he dropped it on the table. Nick's whole body leaned back as he ran across the room, towards her, "What in God's name happened to you?!"

"Nothing." She waved her paw off and sighed, but before she could even realise what was happening, he was in front of her, eyes level with hers, one knee bent, as he looked over his wife with shock; the way his lips hung open and his breath lingered atop his lips stung her within. Why would she be stupid enough to do this to him? Judy wanted to hide, "I...fell down some stairs."

"Judy..." He pressed again, more insistently this time, but his voice hovered barely above a whisper as his digits ran just below the edge of her bruise, skirting its outlines. It stung, but the way in which his fingertips raised her fur sent waves of warmth coursing through her, "Who did this to you?"

"Nobody..?" She shrugged and looked away, "It was the stairs, Nick..."

"Bullshit, who did this to you?" His voice shook, and he walked her to the sofa, switching the television off; the pause screen of River Raiders vanished into an abyss, like water circling a drain, and the soft blue glow of it followed suit, leaving their belongings covered in the gentle yellow rays of two standing lamps. It took her a moment to sit up properly beside him, and he held her paws in his, eyes not leaving her for a moment; don't look at me, her thoughts clamoured. Don't look at me. Don't see me like this, "Judy, I grew up on the streets. I've seen beatings. And this..." The very tip of his index finger brushed against the wide, sickeningly purple edge of her bruise, and she hissed, "You were assaulted." She sighed; tell him. The command came out of nowhere. Her paws pressed together. Her good eye closed tightly, and every muscle in her body contorted into a monolith of abstraction and pain, "Who did this?"

"B...Bogo." Nick lowered his nose and exhaled sharply, his own eyes closing as well, and through the folds in his brow she could see the gears of his mind turning a million miles an hour, "He...he took me into his office and...before I knew it was happening, he grabbed me...punched me in the nose. It's broken, Nick. He broke my nose." Angry, vicious sobs rose out of her in a flurry of breaths and her teeth clenched; it all came back to her now. The vile feeling of his fingers, his breath, his eyes, his lunging form, the anger, the horror, the suffering, time without time, momentless seconds exchanging with weeks that became naught but a drawn-out hiss of some machine in the deep mire of her thoughts, fractured and frayed from the agony, "He...t-took me off the case, said if I told anyone he beat me, he'd pin it on you."

"What?!" Her husband's paws fluttered about in a panicked flurry, and his eyes darted to and fro, across her, across the edges of furniture, down the pouring curves of their shared existence as he tried to make sense of things, "Oh Gods, I can't believe this, I can't fucking believe this!"

"He s-said that you have a criminal record...he'd make one up, Nick...he knows we're trying to adopt and he...he threatened me." At this point, he had shot to his feet, and began pacing across the entire room, running almost as his mind reeled and grasped at straws, "Said that h-he wanted us to...to try and adopt with a record of...domestic abuse."

"That motherfucker!" Judy watched, helpless, as her husband ran to the cabinet in the corner, beside the hallway door, and opened the topmost drawer; metallic rattling filled the air. Even from afar, she could see him shaking viciously. Clicks rushed through the air, followed by a clattering noise of something spinning.

"He...he said he'd...Nick, oh Gods, help me...he said he'd use my psychological evaluation against me, kill me if I ever got involved with the case again, and say that I had attacked him..." Judy sank into herself; her arms found their comfort spots atop her shoulders and her haunches had pressed inwards as far as they would go, until she was hugging her knees to her chest, "I...I thought he was going to rape m-" There, her words cut off. Nick turned to her. Fury raged inside his eyes. A burning pyre of anger like she had never seen before. In his right paw, he clutched something, metallic and jutting; .38 Colt Python, her service weapon, "Nick, what are you doing?" He said nothing; his feet carried him to the door and she shot upwards, intercepting him, "No! Nick, no! Please!"

"I'm going for a walk." He said simply as he paused in the middle of the room, his expressionless eyes fixed on her, "To the police station." Nick took a deep breath, but exhaled quickly, "To kill Bogo." A pair of paws had grabbed his wrist and she held onto it, desperately clinging to him, and her lone, purple, bloodshot eye, broken from within, gazed into his empty green ones.

"You...you can't!" Desperation took over every inch of her being, and he offered no resistance. She pulled the firearm down, and he sank to his knees, dropping the gun on the floor, spilling the bullets across it as the drum opened sideways; the casings rattled as he raised his paws up and covered his face; he was sobbing as well, furiously, viciously, helplessly. All Judy could do was embrace him and do the same. Two bodies shook one another apart with racking breaths and terrified howls, "Nick, oh Gods...Nicholas..."

"We're...we're going to have children, I promise..." Now he was kissing the side of her head, again and again, holding onto her as tightly as he could manage, "He's not going to take our lives from us..." His breaths became sharp and rapid, empty, hollow, distant, but present, so close, and so far away, cold and warm all at the same time. There was not enough of his shirt she could take into her paws and hold onto, "I'm going t-to be a father...and you're going to be a wonderful mother...and this nightmare will end..." Nightmare. Wake. Judy, wake. Open your eyes. Wake. Stir yourself from this. This isn't happening. This cannot be happening.

For hours they simply clung to one another, until the tears had stopped, deep into the night. Husband and wife crept into bed without preparation, simply stripping nude and embracing one another, curled into each other's form, still shivering, still torn apart by everything that was happening. His fur felt like grains of sand beneath her fingers; to have taken from you that which you hold dearest, that which you need, simply to survive for another hour. The words that mingled between them as they lay awake between floral-patterned bedding was almost optimistic, but it was all gone. Her job, his job, their life, all taken, marred by pretence to continue upholding some perverted status quo. Choosing to act meant choosing death. In her arms, he felt so small. Gone were the wry quips, the off-the-cuff jokes, the coy smiles and loving little jokes he would tell her as they brushed their teeth or ate their breakfast together. It had all been swept away by a coursing tide that no dam could hope to hold. Reality became a sieve through which the sands of time poured, and the moment in which all fell to pieces turned to all there ever was. But she still held him. There was still light. Nick. The future. Her life, love, and very soul one with his. Ripped asunder. Clasped paws bunched his fur into the spaces between her fingers. Come Hell or high water, nothing would part them.

Sleep had not found them that night, and they watched the sun rise from the pillows; but not once did they let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is wondering, the quote "Dead people recieve more flowers than the living ones because regret is stronger than grattitude" is said to have been written by Anne Frank.


	5. Confessions Of A Futon-Revolutionist

"Quit squirming, I can't see what I'm doing." Nick motioned for her to throw her head as far back as she could, and she leaned off the armrest, "There we go, almost done." With a pair of pincers he adjusted the pillows of cotton inside each of her nostrils; on a small porcelain plate sitting on the coffee table lay a pair of bloodied, twisted inserts, torn beyond their original proportion by a series of soft tugs. Earlier that morning, Judy was overcome by a painful burning sensation inside her nose and Nick searched for an answer on the internet, only to find something Dr. Stahl hadn't told her about: the cotton balls inside her nose had to be replaced once every twenty-four hours or they would harden and compress, which sometimes resulted in them getting pushed in, which called for emergency surgery. Now she watched as her husband delicately took care of the matter, and with the great amount of levity in his paws it appeared as if this wasn't his first time performing the procedure. Nervously she bit her lower lip as he cleaned away the residual blood around her nostrils and sighed happily to himself, "There you go, all set."

"Thanks, darling." The bunny leaned forward and kissed her husband gently on the lips, and he returned it for a few seconds, holding her cheek cupped in his paw before sitting up fully and stretching a bit. No doubt stiff from the sleepless night they spent embraced, the pop and crack of his back made her grimace slightly. But now he just sat there, watching her. The amorous flutter of his eyes and the gentle, loving sighs he returned as he gazed deep into her good eye were swiftly interrupted by a jab against his side, "Get moving, you ass!" Nick laughed softly; this time, he stole a shorter, but none the less warm kiss, "C'mon, you'll be late!" It was a playful command but there was an element of sternness in her voice; do not put your life on hold because of this.

"Promise I won't." Their brief play was interrupted by a heavy silence that sank between them as he walked over to the suspect cabinet, where she forced him to stow her service weapon. He turned, and passed her the gun, "Stay safe."

"Nick..." Her gaze fell low; of course it couldn't last. Not even for a moment, "Nothing is going to happen."

"We know what he's capable of." It was a plainly-stated fact, but it still sent the bristles of her fur standing on end, "And if he decides to follow up his threat...six rounds should do it."

"I prefer to think that he can't get to us here." She wasn't looking at him any-more; now her eyes were turned to the wall, where she attempted to find something that could grasp her attention. No screens to distract her now, "That this is our little slice of the world." A pair of orange paws embraced her from behind, and she felt his lips atop her head, parting her fur as he kissed her the hundredth time that day; the rush of pins and needles that ran through her being each time he touched her, wholly unrelenting in the face of repetition, drew out a blush onto her cheeks, and she could not stop herself from looking up, twisting her neck until it began to ache, merely to feel his lips against hers again.

"It is." Now their eyes met upside-down, his gazing from above, and each time she picked and searched across those fields of green, she would find something new, be it a small twitch as they sought something out in her visage, or a hue of emerald that had escaped her before, "I love you, Judy."

"I love you too." They whispered to one another, and sank into that consuming warmth of each other's company, but then her finger broke it, jabbing against his shoulder, "C'mon..."

"Alright, alright." Nick paused for a moment between the couch and the door, and cast one last glance at the top of Judy's head, the remainder of her form obscured by the sofa. One of her long ears twitched, and he opened the door quickly; on the other side, he lingered for a moment, taking in the scent of the morning air. It was temperate and sunny, and the gentle breeze that combed across the tall poplars of their back yard appeared almost tranquil. But beyond these gates, there was a world at war. Forces pushing and pulling. His last defence. Somedays he wished he had never become awakened to reality. The joys of a sheltered life, he mused, where every harship becomes someone else's problem. Digging into his side, the tazer he stole from Judy's side of the closet felt unnaturally heavy, almost as if it were looking for an excuse to impede his step. He spent a few minutes sitting in the car, arranging his thermos bottle and bag on the passenger seat; their morning began early, much earlier than usual. First, he had to go to the station and collect their car, which Judy had left behind following her "accident". No matter how much he thought about it, Nick could not imagine the tender slopes of his wife's face lying in a locked position, an uneasy sleep brought on by trauma. And then the iron gaze of the paramedics. He shook his head. Move on, move on. You'll be late.

The engine whirred to life. He pulled out of the driveway and pushed on the pedal as he drove into the city; into the heart. Streets rushed around his head, but it became a blur. Images of Judy's bruises had become emblazoned inside his mind's eye. Last night, as she lay beside him nude, he felt something that had never before ocurred to him: fragility. For as long as they had been one, the gap firmly closed, Nick was on equal terms with her. There were no whispers of protection from the savagery of the world. After all, Judy was as tough as they came. Nick thought back for a moment. That first thing he saw in her when they met; unyielding strength and the ability to persevere. Here was a fox from an unjust world, raised to behave as if each day was his last, and before him stood in defiance a creature unafraid, one whose natural radiance could never be quenched by the darkness of the world in which she chose to immerse herself.

Savagery and war. Beyond the clean-swept sidewalks of a modern metropolis lay countless fights and struggles to be had. Throughout his youth, each crush Nick had was based on his intstinct to protect, nurture, and keep, as if he had something to prove. Father. That word. The intersection put a wedge between him and the office, and he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, in pairs of fours. But that was gone now. Judy needed no protecting. From all the storms of his life, he had perpetually sought a harbour where the winds ebbed and weakened, but never ceased. Standing on the shores of some foreign world, deep inside himself now, as he waited, he could feel the comb of cold air stand his fur on end. The coming night. It loomed above him. Father. Nick never had one. A loud, penetrating drone tore him from his thought.

"Get moving, asswipe!" Of course. He depressed the throttle and after a few sputtering coughs of the engine, it was smooth sailing once again. Fifteen minutes from the office, ten left on the clock. Life was rationing seconds spent between one activity and the next. All he fucking did was clock in every day, perform some meaningless task, and clock back out again. But last night changed that. There was purpose in his stern gaze and folded brow. The fight in his soul had returned. Wistfullness flooded him as he waited for the exact moment to leave the car, engine ticking itself cool in the parking lot. His shift taking place later than yesterday meant the rectangular shade covering the parking lot had shifted, and now light broke at the edge of the cab, where the windshield met stamped metal. Nick almost wished for old age. Twilight. Serenity before a darker dawn. Unproductive thoughts mingled in his head and he waved them away with a sigh. It was once more time to push the glass doors open and meet your destiny for the next twenty years. Fuck everything.

"Morning, Nick!" Hornetta chimed, and this drew a smile out of him, albeit a weak one; beyond the step, the world kept turning. Nothing could dim Hornetta's gleeful grin. There was someone that truly enjoyed what they did. If only she knew, "How's life."

"Good." He shot back as he walked past her quickly, giving her a parting wave as the repeated presses of the elevator button did nothing, "Listen, Hornetta...I'd love to chat but I'm running late."

"That's okay." She chimed back and her smile widened by a mere half-inch; almost desperately so, "I'll see you later."

"See you." He was alone; no employees to pace in and out of the elevator busily, no janitors to ask them to stand back so they could force their carts inside, and no armfuls of mail delivered with pin-point precision. Only the faint hum of elevator music kept him company. "The Girl From Iyakeema", a popular show-tune in some gone-by age, rendered wonderfully through a grated speaker. Where did this music come from, anyway? Did they just find a band to sit in some room and play a show-tune sixty years ago, and by some arcane method, it had suddenly become the industry standard for elevator construction? There was a momentary break in the tune as the instruments wound down, and then they began again, unabated, with the same faux-vivacity and joylessness as the first time around. Slowest elevator he had ever used.

The office was deceptively quiet today. The odd telephone rang here and there but was swiftly answered, and hung up with equal expedience. No time to lose. Another day, another fucking hour spent editing sentences into coherent runs of words, to be consumed by a populace ever hungry for more eye-catching titles and "Fifty Things You Never Knew About Camel Humps". Who read this shit? He scrolled through the article. Lewis had been mercifully absent that day. Tuesdays were his quiet days. His sole office friend, in as massive air-quotes as he could manage, was absent, and for a split-second, just as he was about to switch out two adverbs in a paragraph superficially describing the mechanics of biological water storage in camels, he almost missed the otter's blind enthusiasm. Foil. Noun. A character who contrasts with another character (usually the protagonist) in order to highlight particular qualities of the other character. But Lewis was no foil to Nick. They were polar opposites. There wasn't even a strenuous connection he had to his fellow predator's blind lust for more entertainment. It seemed as if all Lewis could talk about was this television show and that television show. Sometimes he would humour him, nodding sagely as the latter talked about characters Nick knew nothing about, often enunciating entire paragraphs of empty words as if his life depended on it.

More coffee. The keys that power the world must turn. Now came another four articles, all mental chewing gum, as he had taken to calling them. Something about Gazelle, the singer. Zootopia's latest fad. Nick found her music unlistenable, but Judy seemed to enjoy it. During a couple of long road-trips they had taken in the past, she would be the passenger and he would be the one driving, which left her in control of the stereo. Just pop music. Not even the slightest bit of jazz, his favourite on days where the sheer energy of dance music simply would not do. And it always seemed to be about the same things: love, relationships, separation, a spot of sadness in the odd ballad, usually reserved for the end of an album, and then, nothing. Nothing held. Everything was vacuous and brief. Gazelle resided in the same space in his mind where he kept the memories of watching wrestling with uncle Joe. Something to pass the time, but nothing to hold onto. But with how much Judy listened to the top 50 on the radio, he could probably recount the lyrics of half those songs by heart. Wolfinsky's "Petruschka" suddenly became interrupted by something. From this dark, basement hatch of his memory, Gazelle's unbearable chart-topping single "Try Everything" had escaped, and was now staining the purity of his favourite atrociously pretentious (by his own admission) solo piano piece. Between the low notes and darting, flexing harmonies ran an unearable beat, and he plucked one earphone out of his ear, which immediately picked up on his surroundings and began twitching impatiently. Now there were three separate audio tracks pouring into his head: the noise from the office, consisting mostly of hushed laughter and ringing telephones, Wolfinsky's tender ivory acrobatics, and Gazelle's borderline auto-tuned crooning. His head made a mute thumping sound against the table. And then another one. And another one. Shut up. For God's sake, can a fox have some peace? He shut the music of entirely.

Sure enough, Gazelle had left him too. Silence. Think about nothing. Think about the words. Sentence structure. Nick was beginning to regret all those English classes he cut in high school, mostly to smoke catnip behind the gym. Days long gone. He looked down. Between his belt and his waist sat the cold metal of the tazer. Was he printing? No visible outline. Bringing a weapon to work, one quite explicitly banned by law unless carried by executors of said law, was grounds for both firing on the spot and immediate arrest. No, officer, you don't understand, my wife is a police officer. Why a tazer, you ask? If I told you, she dies. It gripped him again. The cold. On the wall behind him hung an utterly tacky poster; an adorable feral kitten clinging to a branch under which ran a line of text reading "Hang in there, baby!" Judy's dad had given it to him as soon as he heard that his son-in-law had gotten an office job. It was meant to be an in-joke. Between his tired fingers utterly demolishing his facial expression and the pounding headache he had somehow managed to develop in the half-hour he spent working, the humour was lost on him. Nothing funny about it. He dragged his paw down until it stretched the skin on his muzzle and pulled it away, letting his muscles fold back into their usual position. Happy thoughts, Nick. Father. Fuck. This wasn't what he meant.

The world was a terrifying place. A cog in the machine, to let his fingers skitter away across the keyboard as he edited an article, written to appeal to the lowest common denominator, and just like everything around him, lost as soon as it has fulfilled its purpose, which was drawing a sensible chuckle or two out of the reader. Hit the pause button on turmoil and let your thoughts fall away, from complex matters, into the dimly-lit room of utter existentialist incomprehension? Who am I, why am I here, what is my purpose? No, that's no good. Well, I never did know that camels have higher car accident survival rates on account of their humps. A humorous image in your mind. Laugh it out and move on. Judy needed no protecting, and yet she protested when he passed her the gun earlier that morning. Why? Three simple letters that had hounded him ever since it all fell apart, the night previous. Why had he broken down in tears? Unless Judy went and pursued the case against Bogo's will, they were safe; but he knew his wife. Judy was driven. That's why. This was a temporary set-back. Only a matter of time before she sheds the chains of violence and the idea of an unwinnable battle, and pursues the case again. Judy needed no protecting, except when she needed protecting from herself. Naturally, to demolish her sense of justice and order was to demolish Judy herself. And he loved her too much to do that to her. Nick loved Judy more than he had ever loved himself. In those brief times when he was home alone, with his bunny away for duty in some other town, for a festival or a commemoration, he would watch himself in the mirror.

What have you ever accomplished? His computer screen had gone to sleep. What did you, Nicholas Wilde, ever accomplish? He married a beautiful woman, but then again, so did his father. He won the heart of his mother, Lucille. Named after Lucille Bell, affectionately called "the most popular sheep that had ever lived". But that was short-lived. Nick had many theories about where his father went and why. In his youth, he preferred to think of this mysterious, abstract creature the other children called "dad" as a swash-buckling buccaneer on the high seas, or a charming, rouge-ish adventurer acting on behalf of some grander purpose that called to him his whole life; something that went beyond his family. Beyond little Nicholas, who sat weeping in his room, deep into the night. But it melted away with age. Family was the most important thing in his life. Always look after number one. And so began the savagery of his own existence. Cast out, rejected, jobless in a world where his ilk had no chance of success. And some still had the gall to say that Pancontinentia, his homeland, was not racist. Zootopia, the gem of opportunity and affirmative action in this multi-cultural world. But for the little fox, the grand promises of men in suits meant nothing. His orange fur, pointed muzzle, and bushy, black-tipped tail betrayed his role in society; a trickster. The janusface of a world painted as inherently ordered. Sometimes he resented the way Judy lifted justice to the high heavens. Abandoned as a child, left to his own devices, Nick knew not of justice, only of pain.

What did you accomplish? Office job, nine to five, hardly unique. The beginnings of an adventure. Prelude to a sense of order in a deterministic universe, perhaps. Tailor your own meaning, he reminded himself as he sipped his coffee cup with purpose, almost as if he was about to go back to work. But the darkness of the screen betrayed the truth. No motivation dwelt in his heart. How could it? A fox. A simple fox. Janusface, two sides to one coin, to turn on a dime and become something else entirely. The husband to a woman far above his own rank in the grand order of things; she bore the honour of her whole species on her shoulders. First in something, best in everything, leaving him in the long, cold shadow of her deeds. He shook his head. Nonsense. He loved her, always. That was why he loved her, in part. There was no way to sum up in a wholesome way why he loved her, but that driven nature was one of the reasons why. Stubborn, too. Refusing to budge on matters she considered true. Long ago have they given up arguing about politics. Judy felt as if everything was just; privilege does not exist, neither does race, or the absence of rights. The world was perfect, to her. Nothing could be father from the truth. Sometimes he would scoff at such ideas, but that was a long time ago; he had given up that fight. Changing the world meant nothing any-more. Into that same abyss fell his father's clip-on ties and the mimicked speeches he would run before his mirror in his formative years. But there was so much more to her. Her political views spoke of innocence. She would age, and he would age with her; that was the nature of life. To change together. And that he would protect until his dying breath left him.

"Wilde." His eyes shot up. Of course it was him. Who else? Garret Edwards, the sack of shit himself. Apprehension gripped Nick for a split-second as he wondered once more whether he was printing, but a quick pat of his lower abdomen proved that he wasn't, "Working hard?"

"Yes, sir." Edwards would get upset unless someone specifically referred to him by his last name, or the pointlessly honorific 'sir', or both, depending on how he felt that day, which way the gale blew outside, or whether or not rain was in the forecast sometime in the next century; once, Nick witnessed a new arrival addressing Edwards as 'Eddie'. That was the fastest he had seen anyone fired. Thirty-seven seconds, by his count.

"Why is your screen dark?" Nick resisted the urge to sigh. Edwards was playing with him.

"Because I was editing these." In an instant, the fox produced a stack of annotated papers from the drawers to his right, and this seemed to satisfy Edwards, but not in a positive way. Evidently he had come here to find some reason to fire him, or just put him on probation, but now that the evidence vanished.

"Good, carry on, Wilde." End and begin with a surname; formulaic. As Edwards continued his nervous pacing around the office hallways, paws folded on his lower back, head hung low, eyes scanning akin to a pair of sniper scopes, Nick stood and went to get himself more coffee. Throughout the short walk to the break room, he replayed the mental image stapling Edwards' testicles to his chin and watching him lick them.

At gunpoint.

* * *

And so began the hours of isolation.

Boredom was never an element with Judy. Her mind would always find something to pursue, be it a news report on TV, an article on the internet, or evidence she had to sift through, and the feeling of numbness that had struck her was wholly foreign to the bunny. Away from Nick, away from the warmth of his fur and the echoes of his voice, the silence crashed against the stones of her consciousness. At one moment, something in the corner appeared to be buzzing, and she would turn in momentary alarm, seeking it out, before it all went away again; the fridge was cooling itself down, or a breeze rattled the hanging pans above the kitchen island. Half an hour she spent lounging on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, and willing herself to think of nothing at all. Within her skull, a void had formed, circling water running around some drain. Pressure began to form atop her temples and the rubbing motions of her digits only made it worse. Judy closed her eyes. There was no warmth in the darkness, even below the sheets she had collected from the bedroom to quell the cold, rushing waters of boredom and idleness. Ashtray. She wanted an ashtray. Nick would smell the smoke, but by now, she was certain that he knew, and he hadn't protested. Of course. Free to do to herself as she pleases, and he would never comment on it. Judy felt as if she couldn't have picked a worse moment, or a better moment. This was the neutrality of the limbo in which she found herself. At the same time, the self-destructive impulses she indulged in now had a source, and perhaps he was holding off on commenting about her forming habit of filling her lungs with tar and carcinogens, lest he provoke something he could not control. Nothing, think about nothing. Don't consider the scar which now lay obscured by the blanket, and which the one whose name she could not bear to speak, even in the utter abandon of her own mind, had used as a foul bargaining chip.

So she lit a cigarette, and took her sweet time with it. Vertigo struck her at a thousand miles per hour, but one more drag had stifled it fully, and now she lay like a starfish atop the sofa, one paw hanging off the side as her head sank into the soft pillows, and she watched her toes on the other side of the sheet. A long time ago she had learned about nerves in biology class. About the substances which tirelessly carried electrical signals to each end of her body, and as she took a breath, pain flourished within her ribcage. That element of it as well. Pain, pleasure, touch, warmth, cold. She pulled the blanket aside. Just below the soft (and in her opinion, small) mounds of her breasts lay a series of long, purple marks, melding into one coherent bruise on the front; his palm left an imprint on her. Cold returned, but she pushed it away with another drag of her cigarette. A frigid ebb of air drew across her bare chest and she pulled the blanket to herself again, curling up beneath it slightly. The TV sat opposite her like a monolith. Dark, unwelcoming, gazing back with a single red, flickering eye in its bottom right. It was a cheap cathode tube one they bought at a yard sale. Far from HD, it served its purpose. Years were passed before it, countless evenings spent in each other's warm embrace as she skilfully commented on the choice of shot or the quality of cinematography, which always left Nick nodding in affirmation at it. There wasn't much for her husband to say to that. He cared little about culture, and even less about the theory of it, but she found the many methods film-makers used to depict the reality of life fascinating. Her father had a book at home: 1001 Films To See Before You Die. The title was threatening, but she had little concept of the notion at the time, and instead spent her hours sifting through the synopses and actor lists, wondering what each film would be like judging by the one or two stills that were provided on each page. Nick did not know this, but she had been ticking off the list for some time now, even before she met him. Citizen Canine was her absolute favourite; Nick had fallen asleep less than twenty minutes in. But she hadn't noticed. She was too taken by everything that was happening. The perfect film.

To tick off the list, and to find one that compares. That was her goal. So far, nothing. Nothing came close to the technical proficiency and splendour of that utterance...rosebud. Nick remarked how he thought it was referring to the clitoris. She smacked his shoulder. Later, she found out that it was indeed a dirty joke on the part of the script-writer, but she would be damned if she'd let him know that. Oral sex was uncommon between them, but during one of the few times he lowered his lips past her belly-button and to her nethers, he uttered "rosebud", and she began laughing so hard that she accidentally kicked him in the shoulder. According to him, it was quite painful, but he was far more concerned about her choking to death than the state of his collarbone. Solitude returned. The cigarette had been extinguished. Judy rose to her feet and shed the blanket. The air around her was cool, but she almost liked the way it danced across her form with each motion. Long ago, she would dance in her room. Her mother caught her once, and suggested, as mothers do, that she should consider taking up ballet. But that was not an earnest thought in her mind for a very long time now. But the motions of her mute performance took her, and she stood on her fingertips, closing her eyes, and drawing a deep breath. Nick loved classical music. She found it dull, but some of it had stuck with her, including a piece by Pyotr Wolfych Tschaikovsky (why were all classical composers wolves? she wondered briefly): Swan Lake. A ballet. Nick had it on Blu-Ray, and one of his conferences took him out of town for a few days. So she watched it. All two and a half hours of it. The simplicity of the dancers' motions stunned her. The lightness of it, the absolute tenderness of it. Long, slender cats mingled with serious-looking dogs atop a regal stage, and they all hopped and skipped as if gravity was no object. Now she recounted that melody. One, two, three, extend leg. She did. Judy refrained from doing a spin as her head began to ache at once, but she pressed through it, moving from one end of the room to the other, back straight, eyes open for a moment, narrow and level with an imagined line before dipping down again, to follow through.

Fatigue came quickly, and she gave up, leaning against the couch. All of their windows had Venetian blinds on them, but she still feared that some eagle-eyed passer-by would spot a nude bunny dancing around the room with a hideous bruise on her face, and an utterly improvised coreography. So she retreated to the bathroom, where she ran the water for a bath. It took her less than a minute to find the optimal temperature; "This place has good plumbing, I think we should take it" is what Nick said before they moved in, during the showing. He wasn't wrong. Their bathroom was a place of rest. Strewn-about pieces of personal hygiene mingled with pieces of their personality; Nick's toilet magazines, mostly on the topic of jazz and music in general, and the candles she kept on the edge of the sink. She bought them for one distant Valentine's day, along with a plastic bag full of fake rose petals, but after Nick had helped her in 'consummating' their mutual 'gift', she kept them there, to be used when she wanted to treat herself to something special. Now was not one of those moments, so she let them be. Instead, she looked at herself in the mirror. Their apartment had a lot of them, but it wasn't her decision to buy them; Nick insisted he needed a full view of himself when "manscaping", whatever that meant, so they bought a studio mirror to keep beside the sink. Now she watched her own body in it.

A strange thought came to her: we watch ourselves age, but we never truly see it happen. Judy avoided making eye contact with herself, and instead focused on the shape of her body. Shoulders narrow and sloping downwards, a statement towards her femininity, sitting below her grey and white neck. Nick had broad and flat shoulders, but hers were more delicate, arching upwards most successfully in the grasp of his lips or the supple touch of his paws. Her arms, long and slender, too long for her form according to herself, but proportionate by any measure. Breasts, two of them, with a pair of small, round nipples in the middle. One day, she had found Nick's stash of nude images, which (she imagined) he entertained himself with in her absence. Most women shown on them had perfect nipples: proportionate areolas, and a small, pert bump in the middle of them. But hers were different. Smaller areolas, so small in fact, that they were almost invisible, contrasted starkly against her slightly jutting nipples, which stuck out when erect, as they were now, due to the cold. Further down. Problems arose here; marks she did not want to see, and she almost looked away for a second. This is who you are, she reminded herself, as someone had once pointed out. Be unashamed of it. Markings of life. The purple and blue that melded expertly, almost as if they had been painted with purpose by some cruel hand, bore wintess to the fact that she was still breathing. They were marks of struggle. No surrender. Her expression stiffened. To not surrender to circumstance. But strength was few and far between, and a reminder of it inevitably brought back images best left forgotten, so she moved on. The base of her ribs. Stretching when she took a breath, and collapsing when she exhaled. Life, coursing through her. Beneath it, a heart beat, smaller in size than most, but intense. As a child, Judy was a hypochondriac. She feared death, but at the same time, bore a certain reverence to it. To ensure her own longevity, despite the obvious obstacle of her youth, she insisted she see a cardiologist. Cardiac arrhythmia, nothing uncommon, perfectly normal, and a hyper-kinetic bloodstream. Her pulse was perpetually elevated. Came with the heritage of her biology. Bunnies ran. Bunnies hid. And these were the remnants all to familiar to the one that stood her ground and fought. Down again.

Belly-button. Small and round, and gazing inwards. Signs of heritage, of where she came from. Four brothers and one sister in her mother's womb, and this was her life-line; useless now, of course. But interesting regardless. Never forget where you came from, she thought. Below it lay her waist. This is where her hips widened. Muscular and strong, they bore the evolutionary burden of fight or flight. Judy was the best runner in her academy class, and her phyisque reflected that fact pointedly. But they were also child-bearing hips. This is where the cold struck her again. For as long as she could recall, Judy wanted to become a mother. She knew that it wasn't at all pertinent to being considered a "full woman", but she desired it like nothing else. And in so far, she understood her parents' urges for her to find a good husband from her own species. Now, things had chainged. Nick's sperm could not seek out her egg, and even if it did, a host of other chemical problems would most likely cause a painful miscarriage. She took a step back. Beneath her waist lay that soft, vertical slit. It was a mere gash from above, but as she parted her knees slightly, it grew more prominent. Judy had not looked at her own vagina in a mirror for a long time, but now it seemed different than she remembered it being. Fertile at a glance, tight as well, and shapely; those were Nick's words, not her own. Judy had never seen another woman's genitals in person, so she had nothing to compare herself to, but he lauded the gentle, sloping edges of her mons as "perfect". And atop its crescent shape, concealed by a small tuft of fur, lay her clitoris. "Rosebud". She chuckled. Nothing to linger on there. Infertile in her own lifetime, by circumstance, or perhaps by choice. Did she choose to fall in love with Nick? It did not matter. What was done was done. And if she could go back, she would do the exact same thing. The thought of playing with herself to stave off the boredom crossed her mind, but whenever she did it with a headache, it only grew worse, so she discarded the idea. It would also mean looking at more of her nude body. At the present moment, all she wanted was to drown it in a sea of bubbles. Finally, toes. Nothing to say about them. They served their purpose, and she had never given them a second thought. Except during her adolescence when she had a phase, marked most prominently by a toe ring. Six months, thankfully, and it was gone. Into her drawer of jewellery it went. Judy did not have much. A few necklaces, some rings, and a few ear-rings, but she detested wearing the latter as it meant sacrificing her hearing to the wills of clattering metal.

The bunny dipped her toes in the water. Warm embrace, almost womb-like, and she sank into it, keeping her nose above the water-line. A lot of bad things could happen if she didn't do so. Despite her wanting to deny it to herself, Judy knew the truth; it had been nearly three days since she showered, and it showed. Or rather, smelled. This was a welcome relief. Ten minutes of silence passed, during which she solemnly gazed out of the door and into their bedroom while her aches spilled away from her bones. They appeared to dissolve in the water, akin to a massive aspirin tablet. It drooled from every inch of her muscles, from her flesh drifted loose the aches of a past life. Sinking in further, she paused. Judy stretched out of the bath and placed her phone on the wide edge of it. No danger of it vibrating itself into the water below if she caught it on time. In case Nick called. He probably will, she mused, seeing how concerned he was. The gun. She left it on the table, in plain sight. The door was double-locked. No chance of entry. Even if someone did attempt to break in, she could dispose of them with her paws alone. No weapon needed. She was the weapon. A sharp, stabbing ache in her side tore her from this line of reasoning. She used to be a weapon. Not as effective any more. An unmaintained gun. Her thoughts ran wild again. Age. In the mirror, she recalled her own form. Her breasts had grown, her hips widened, her frame expanded. We all age. Time passes, the one master to whom we have to bend. And the Gods, of course. Her parents had faith in the Gods, and by proxy, so did she. Sometimes she would pray, but only when she was alone, and in her mind most times. But that was a long time ago. The last time she prayed was over two and a half years ago, she recalled. Now justice ruled supreme. The Earthly command of the laws of the Gods, as understood by the myriad different species and cultures that mingled with one another in Zootopia. This was not up to her. The rule of law was clear, and secular, separate from the Gods entirely, and any religious objections to it were vetted by a parade of judges she never saw. The other side of things. Protect and serve. Keep the peace. Arrest those guilty at a glance. In the end, it was the word of law that decided, but she never saw any of those she had arrested again. Moved on with their lives, in spite of the accusations levelled against them, defeated at the gates of reason, or alternatively, the less preferable possibility of truth coming to light and those who had engaged in illicit acts being held accountable for their transgressions, imprisoned for a very long time.

During her time at the academy, she studied theory. There was once a brief passage on the topic of justice and God: "The Earthly jurors are merely a conduit for the laws of the Gods; an act of evil is defined as evil by intent primarily, but intent in the moment cannot be measured by animal reason. Therefore, the jurors on Earth are nothing more than acting bodies commanded by reason and rationality, judging as best they can. Ultimately, the judgement of intent remains upon the shoulders of the Gods. It is there that the guilty, if acquitted of their crimes by an earthly jury, face their punishment; and up until that moment, they must live with their lies." Ockham, if she recalled correctly, was the author of that notion. She understood it, but had doubts about it being true. There were barriers to her faith, or more to the point, to her parents' faith. Determinism was one; Judy knew little of philosophy, but she had grasped that concept. Determinism, in its hardest sense, as her parents understood it, was that all acts and outcomes were determined by the Gods in advance. There was no free will. She did not believe this; if that was truly the case, what was justice? What was her purpose? Why did she do what she did? What point was there to arresting those who commit crimes if they themselves have no decisive freedom in the matter? The absence of free will in the absolute meant the absence of law, of justice, of mortal agency. No-one could do any wrong, since they themselves could not affect the preset will of the Gods. Judy played with the foam in the tub, letting it slip down her finger and fall into the water. It made a radiating shape, a set of waves to spread outwards. She was aware of herself. Aware of her own being. I think, therefore I am. If she can think, she can decide. No, agency was a given; reshape your own destiny. But did she truly believe? Judy closed her eyes. Not this debate again, she whispered to herself. Nick was a staunch atheist, and gave her clear reasons why: as a child, he prayed. Yet he still went hungry and cold. The will of the Gods, her parents would say, is absolute, and mysterious.

Determinism commanded that the victims of the case were to die. Innocents. A cruel pantheon indeed. To toy with mortals who committed no wrong at the time. Perhaps in the past, but acts that were truly despicable enough to warrant such a response? Judy peeled her eyes in scepticism. Helpless. No, not like this. Judy could change things. Even if the hideous bruise on her eye and the sheer terror contained within the photographs that sat on the kitchen counter told her of how little she could change, she would find a way. The role of the police force was to triumph over evil itself. But Bogo was evil, or at least she thought him to be as such. His acts defined who he was, as they do for all of us. No-one is innately evil, she reminded herself, despite the religious dogma of a black-and-white world her parents had borne into her. Nick was proof of that. He was the grey area of life. Condemned by society as a whole to perpetually being evil, he has shown goodness she could not begin to quantify; tenderness, honesty, proof of purity. Deep inside him lay a wounded child. But she could judge Bogo only by what she saw; Ockham. "As best they can". Evil must be stopped. That much the badge commanded. That was her job. Evil was beyond quantification to her, but ther existed a clear reasoning of the law being broken, and that was all she needed. Determinism, both soft and hard, broke inside of her, in that moment. Years of conditioning shattered like glass. Drilled-in passages from the Good Book, gone. Agency. Act. Prevent him. Stop him. Judy entered the bathtub conflicted, and emerged an atheist. The Gods held no command over her. To break her, she reasoned, was their purpose. Why cast her into such trials to begin with? But she would break through all of it, no matter what it took, or how long it took, or whether or not it would kill her. Fuck the Gods. It was her turn now.

Judy had passed the hours writing on a whiteboard, concealed behind the living room cabinet, an implement she hadn't used in an eternity and a half. Evidence, connections; the pressing question. Why? Why did he snap at her? Why did Bogo see it fit to destroy a bunny that not only had no agency to begin with, but knew nothing of the intimate details of the case itself? The painful details melded into a pastiche of agony, but she willed it all away, pressed through the tears, and the headache, and the dizziness in her head. Waves broke, violent gales, oncoming supercells stretching above her head, threatening to destroy everything and everyone, but she could not sit idly by. Judy Hopps. Zootopia's first bunny officer. That day, she did not see a person in that mirror; she saw a tarnished conduit of justice, stamped on by Bogo. And her was the revenge for each illicit act that hid behind his actions. The burden of justice. Fight it, until you cannot fight it any-more, and then some. Work tirelessly. This was bigger than her, just like Bogo had hissed into her ears. But that never stopped her; Judy Hopps, justice, and law. Protect and serve.

Nick found her passed out on the sofa, when he came back to work, fully nude and lying beside nearly fifty hand-written pages of a preliminary report.


	6. When The War Came

Days began slipping away. Judy would observe the outside world from beyond the bedroom window, but only when she had time to do so. Now she had purpose. It became a play of moments, to wait for Nick to leave so she could immerse herself fully in her work, in the depth of her preliminary report. Each photograph was subject to her scrutiny. At times she forgot to eat. There was no moment during which her concentration slipped, and maintaining it meant drowing out everything else. Hours simultaneously became seconds and weeks; the shadows on the floor would draw long as they sank with the sun, peaking with its apex in the sky, where none poured through the windows on either side, until it sank, breaking the darkness through the kitchen-side casement windows in long, piercing shafts. But it meant nothing, in the end. The arms of the clock turned to technical implements, useful only for measuring how much time she had left to fully immerse herself in her work. Technicalities on her road to recover something. Loss stung at her; not Bogo's beating, or the fading brusies it had left behind, or even the victims of the murders themselves. No, there existed a purpose beyond this, one she clearly defined on Tuesday, but on Wednesday it was gone. A few times she pondered returning to the bathtub, as she did that day, recreating that hour until the idea came back; in a sense, this was oddly similar to what she was trying to do on a professional basis. Carefully, with steady paws and a sharp mind, rewind the seconds of the night club murders to find a connection. And so it went, for hours. Each day. In and out, up and down the white surface, write the notes, connect the dots, jot down on solid paper, and erase. Give your mind room to breathe. Hours. This was not to say that her busy scrawling on the whiteboard or ceaseless passages she lovingly crafted by hand on a blank paper, despite their grim contents, had put her life anywhere near that fear of it being "on hold". Nick's return home would be the same as her own; or at least it turned to such an occasion. Work would cease, and they would spend the remainder of the day tending to one another. No words were exchanged on the matter that hung between them now. Sometimes she would spot something in the corner of Nick's eye; it appeared to manifest as a sort of concealed resentment, but he would not put it into words. Instead, he would whisper to her sweetly, kiss her, caress her, and he even cracked one or two jokes, but Judy knew that when she wasn't looking, there was tension. Her husband thought she wouldn't notice. Judy kept a meticulous inventory of all her police equipment, and noting the absence of the tazer was a simple as opening a drawer or two, and seeing that both it and its special, concealable holster were gone. Judy bit at her lower lip as she thought about it. Nick was never afraid. Not once did she find him fearing for something as enigmatic and distant as Bogo's threats. But the evidence was there.

Evidence. Key word. The report she had received had numerous technical faults. She underlined them all. A lack of attention was paid to the firearms, to the casings, and the majority of the file focused on the sickening reality of the victims' fates. Initially, during the first day of her rapid, and dirty analysis she found these details to be nauseating, but eventually the photographs dissolved into mechanical components; shutter, lens, click, save frame to the SD card, print, move on. Patterns of light striking an internal mechanism and leaving an imprint that required digital processing before it became useful. Technicalities. The cold, empty stares of the victims' eyes, the broken postures of their lifeless bodies, and even the traces of grey matter left behind by the donkey's shredded skull turned to nothing more than technical notation. This was professionalism, she would whisper to herself as she closed the folder at the end of another day; not pragmatism, as she had thought. But drive. The desire for truth. The men on the scene were not jaded. They were merely doing their jobs, and that left no room for personal interpretation, because it wasn't relevant. Forensics was a science, an exact one at that, and each of those morsels of flesh became a piece of some grander puzzle for her to put together. At one moment, she felt exhilaration, but it was instantly replaced by unease; this wasn't fun. Real people. Judy would pace up and down the apartment, now desperately attempting to recapture those horrendous images; and she succeeded. An entire day's work wasted wrapped up in bed, crying in waves, while she tried to hold herself together. And the nightmares returned after. But Nick had left the following morning, and one more glance in the full-length mirror was enough to get her on track. And so returned her purpose; justice. Become its executor. And at night, when all was still once again, she put her arm around Nick and enjoy the soft hum of the refridgerator as he told her of his day at length; the lack of a television left them to their own devices. Initially, it began with stories, as it always did with Nick. Snippets of a life she had not seen, and she would giggle at them, sometimes loudly, and simply kiss him. No matter what she thought of him as the years passed, ever since they became one, she was rapt by his ability to tell stories. Some of them were obviously exaggerated for effect, but always for humorous effect, and she enjoyed them greatly, never coming to question their veracity. After all, what would the pursuit of truth in his anecodtes bring them? Whether or not they were true did not matter. They amused her either way.

One of her favourites surrounded the topic of the high seas; until that week, Judy never knew of Nick's love for sailing. He adored everything relating to boats and could spend hours describing the absolute silence of a vessel adrift upon high tides, alone in its wake, beneath a sky that appeared endless, meeting the sea in some imagined place. Apparently, on a clear day, the sea and sky were a spotless marble face, a collossal unity, and one could easily get lost in it. When everything was calm and the water became a mirror, nothing could be distinguished from anything else. It all turned to the same painting, unchanging, and the sole tool for navigation became the compass, or the stars, once night had come. Nick had sailed many times in his life, most notably during the summer. It was a tradition for them, to go to the seaside whenever they could, but most strikingly, for three months of each year he spent at home; formative years; Judy did not know why. Perhaps it reminded his mother of some long-lost time. She knew that Nick never had a father, but he had mentioned that only once, in passing, and never again. To ask again would be to cross an unspoken line. But despite that, she could not shake the feeling of it somehow being relevant. For now, she was content with lying on his lap, listening to the melodic upshots and valleys of his voice as his paws gripped and shook at invisible threads. Sometimes he would slip into what she would almost describe as poetry. Long, flowing passages describing his surroundings; it seemed as if her husband knew countless ways to describe a single, simple shade of blue. And at the end of each tale, she would lean up and kiss him, and he would stroke her shoulders and back lovingly, until his eyes began to grow heavy. Is this what people did before the internet? Sit around and just reminisce? In the course of that one week, Nick became more to her, somehow; before it, Judy believed that she understood his nuances without fault or abridgement, but now parts of him came to light she had never asked about. Perhaps that's why. They were things she could not even begin to suspect, let alone question him on; interrogatives such as 'what sort of music do you like?' became trivial, banal interludes to fill voids of silence. The bunny much preferred it when he painted pictures with his words.

"You should write something." She said, one evening, and Nick paused for a moment, stunned by the proposition.

"Absolutely not." The fox chided, and Judy tilted her head to the side in confusion, "Writers are almost always the same; alcoholic wrecks that spend their precious, God-given time pouring over every single tid-bit of life, no matter how irrelevant it may be."

"And that's why you'd be great at it." It wasn't as much of a remark as it was a teasing little joke, but his response was perfect; simply to kiss her again, and scold her with the cutest half-irate voice she had ever heard, emerging in atonal chirps between the pecks and caresses of his lips. And then she'd tell him she loved him, and he'd say it back. But the unspoken matter remained. The stack of paper would grow each day, until it became two, and then three.

On the fourth day of her 'vacation', as she had come to rationalize it proper, she began pacing between thinking aloud. No matter what, Judy would almost always work in the nude. It made her feel more comfortable, no matter how strange it felt to have both her breasts, her torso, and the space between her thighs freely exposed to the wills of endless, winding breezes and gusts that their poorly-isolated apartment produced. But the pacing took her. Perpetual motion to grant her clarity. Feeling beneath her feet, from the rug, to the cold tile, to the melodramatic comfort of the wooden flooring; she understood why the early Aristotelian teachers taught while walking. Peripatetics did indeed clear the mind unlike nothing else, and eventually, she began taking breaks to exercise. Strengthen the body. She did not know what Dr. Stahl thought of her doing so, or whether her concussed state even allowed for sustained phyiscal activity, but the bunny did not care. Atop the whiteboard lay a single passage she never erased, in the top left corner, present since Wednesday: mens sana in corpore sana. Free your body, and your soul shall follow. But a day later, she began to put it into practice. She ran miles on the treadmill, did sit-ups whenever there was a hold-up, and practised her kicks. Eventually she unpacked a chin-up bar stowed in the back of the closet. It was a strange metallic implement, long and menacing, but there lay a button in its middle. A press released the prongs on either side of it and created a wedge in the space between whatever two objects she chose to place it between. Simple, yet immaculate and genius. One lift, pause, and then a second one, and it went like that until she reached a hundred. A day later, her sexual desire came back to her. It was a simple acknowledgement of her body, left in parenthesis between two important mental notes on the dispersion of missed shots on the scene; wetness between her legs. She did not act on it, and instead waited for it to pass. Sure enough, it subsided, along with the mental images that spun in her mind, of Nick's embrace, and warmth, and the sensation of him filling her, touching her from within. Diligently, the bunny returned to work.

Judy reasoned that it wouldn't take a lot of convincing to drag Nick into bed with her proper, and that her more biological desires could be sated that way, but whenever she lay in his embrace, her shyness took hold. It was a long time since that last happened between them. Love-making was a simple procedure, and occurred most commonly in a spontaneous way. They'd be in bed, beside one another, and she'd feel a familiar heat move up her fur. From there, it was a matter of well-established motions mingling with new sensations. Grasp him, giving him a few gentle tugs, a kiss or two, guide him in, and so they would mate. No shyness involved at all. In the beginning, there was a little of it. Apprehension focusing on whether it would even fit, concerns about how it would feel in her paws or whether she'd do the right thing, but in time, they lay dashed. She had seen all of his body, and he had seen all of hers. There was nothing to hide. But the bruise would ache dully each time her paws snaked a tender little path down the middle of his chest. Judy did not care much about her looks. But it felt ugly. That's all it took. Confidence would evaporate, just like any drive she had to claim him. And that was her face; he had seen the bruises on her body, but not in a sexual context. From her clandestine observations, she established that she wasn't alone in the endless pursuit of terrible memories, no matter how far in the past they lay. All judy could do was sigh softly and wonder whether he felt the same way. Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn't. Either way, there was no way to find out; or at least no way for her to bring herself to do so, lest she break whatever rituals they had already established. Perhaps if she attempted it in the darkness, with naught but the caress of moonlight to betray her wounded nature? No. His paws would accidentally press and knead, like they did normally, especially when he was the one on top, and then a hiss would slip her lips, and the sensuality of the moment would be shattered. Then he'd kiss her, whisper words of comfort in her ear, more to calm himself than her. Naturally, he would be cautious too; no rougher motions, no passionate grinding. Only slow weight.

The bruises on her body had begun to wither and fade. By Friday, the evidence of Bogo's terror had been fully erased from her torso. Gone were the infringing blue marks left by his grasp, and the normal shade of her fur and the pink flesh underneath. But whenever she would actuate the area, a sharp breath would manifest in the form of hushed sighing; jarring daggers just below her skin. Briefly she wondered whether he had succeeded in breaking a rib, but as deep breathing did not cause her pain, Judy rid herself of the idea. Going to Dr. Stahl again would only take time away from her. Besides, there would be a more definitive sort of ache there. In time, she had even begun to see out of her inflicted left eye. Having an entire slab of her vision missing for almost a week meant that strong light of any sort gave her an instant migraine, which only served to accentuate the dull beating inside her skull. The latter also weakened, and with it went the dizziness and lack of balance. None of the warnings Dr. Stahl had given her came to fruition, and she had used her painkillers but twice, opting to channel the pain into productivity; it was another aspect of her purpose. The marring of her being and the pain she felt was only further evidence of what Bogo had done, and why he had to pay. After long periods of work, it grew intense, but Judy willed herself to press onwards, and never stop, never surrender. To bend a knee before Bogo meant to bend a knee before all those that wished for her to fail, and the bruises were proof of that; proof of life and struggle. The bunny would never quit. Through tears and whimpered breaths she drew on, wrote down the details. More pages. More notes. More proof to channel the truth into a palpable form. At times she would run her fingers along the coarse edges of the paper, to feel the burden of purpose.

In time, the silence began to annoy her, so she sought out some music. Gazelle and other, similar pop tunes took her out of the context into which she had so carefully placed herself. Something softer, more tender. Something that loaned itself to being appreciated in a not wholly concentrated state, but a half-attention of sorts, where one of her ears would vaguely shift at the first sign of a key change or shift in tempo. An experiment: place one of Nick's treasured classical CD's into the stereo and hit play. See where that takes you. Wolfinsky was first, of whom Nick had an admirable collection. Primarily a pianist, all his pieces were simultaneously gradual and vivacious. Judy appreciated it for a moment, but then the presses of the keys would usher in the notion of work. Lines here, lines there, sentences, punctuation, official language, it all became child's play in the wake of Wolfinsky. Nothing to hold her back. Playful, nuanced, and quick. Eventually, she sought out others. The same four pieces began to bore her, and everything else was too long for her, too heavy and burdening to be listened to in a single go. Strauss seemed like an interesting name. She hadn't heart it before. This was wholly different, but it amused her. This was it, and she was sure of it. The soundtrack to her investigation grew from three simple Wolfinsky pieces to nearly all of Strauss' opus: violin concerto in D minor, oboe concerto in D major, Allerseen (Op. 10 No. 8), and so on. Flowing violins, jagged trombones, skipping bassoons, pounding timpani, and crooning harpsichords. In each she put a small part of her work. The soft murmuring plucks of a harp gave her focus; she imagined herself plucking at the evidence in an identical manner, and found herself connecting it all to be much easier than she thought. Breezing through the pages of the folder, (of which there were few, but sufficient to build a comprehensive image of what happened) Judy felt proud. And now it was time to dot her i's. Finishing touches. An acquaintance at the academy had once shared a piece of wisdom with her: if you cannot image yourself dropping a microphone after reading the final sentence of your work, start over. "In conclusion, I believe to have found ample evidence of foul play, and given the obstruction of justice shown by one Police Chief Thelonious Bogo, it is clear that the matter requires further, internal investigation." Humming, metallic ringing. Buzzing. Swagger off the stage. Maybe throw up some gang signs as well? Sunglasses for sure. And with minutes to spare, too. Sunday night had arrived, and she thought about it as she watched the Sun sink behind the steep hill-side that lay ahead of their back yard. Sure, they got lots of beautiful sunrises, but if they desired a sunset, they'd have to climb up nearly three and a half miles of swerving road to reach the apex of the hill. Pointless thoughts. Judy got dressed in a hurry. Just as she had snapped her bra into position and steadied the hook, Nick pushed the door open.

"Anyone home?" Strauss stowed in his case, slipped neatly back into the stack. Whiteboard erased. Papers sorted, and awaiting a final judgement. One hundred and twenty-five pages. Judy was ready. She stepped out of the bedroom and leaned against the door frame, watching Nick from across the room; for a moment she wondered whether she appeared unintentionally erotic. After all, what was he to think when he found his scantily-clad bunny leaning suggestively at the threshold to their bedroom? "Another hard day's work." He puffed and undid his tie; her husband would always say something to that effect when he arrived home, but she knew it was just filler, stock words he felt the need to use, despite neither of them believing it for a moment, "Been productive today?"

"Yes, I have." Her spirits were audibly high, and Nick raised his eyebrow slightly before giving a nod and a smile, "Actually, I finished the entire report today. I'm particularly proud of the last sentence." Nick's eyes followed his wife's slender, dexterous form as she walked to the pile and collected a paper off the top; her voice rang out through their living room, booming with clarity and conviction, and in his face, she saw a shimmer of pride, but also something else, "What do you think?"

"I think you did a really good job, darling." He paced over to her and kissed her on the lips tenderly, holding as he usually did, and then pulled away, looking down at a pair of grey paws that began to undo the buttons of his shirt, "So, what's next?"

"What's next?" Judy echoed and shrugged nonchalantly, "Not much, except that I'm going to mail this to the commissioner's office. Oh, and deliver it to Bogo in person." The difference in height between the two of them wasn't great, but at times she had to tilt her head back slightly to fully take in his features; now they stiffened, and sank, ears dropping a slight bit. Gone was the smile, the grin of encouragement, and that shimmering sort of pride that would radiate from his eyes. Now there was something else, "What's...what's wrong, Nick?"

"Judy, I supported in you everything, and will always continue to do so, but..." He took a step away from her and turned away from her, until she was looking at his shoulder. Sullen paws found their marks inside his pockets, and the way his shoulders sank bit at her, "You...I..." Between each individual word, he would sigh, "You cannot do this."

"Nick, what are you saying?" The matter of names arose infrequently between them, and given the plethora of nicknames they devised, to address one another by name was a step away from the routine, and a palpable, shivering step into the grand unknown, where everything was up in the air; and Judy truly felt that weight now.

"You don't know what you're doing." Her own husband, accusing her of ineptitude when it came to her own work? Now anger roared inside her, until it all became a blur on the wheel of shifting emotions, "Giving this to Bogo means we'll both..." He swallowed hard, "Die."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Nick?!" The bunny's frame shook with each word that spilled from her lips and she began pacing, walking quickly to and fro a pair of imagined points, ever changing, "He isn't going to kill me! He's going to be arrested for this!"

"By whom? Tell me, who in fuck's name is going to arrest the chief of the inner city precinct?" He motioned accusingly towards the pile of papers; her finest work. No pride, just anger. And fear, "Just because he broke the law doesn't mean anyone is going to stop him."

"They have to! There's...there's procedures, and committees, and hearings, and-" He cut her off.

"Are you serious right now? Bogo is corrupt. He owns the department, he owns you! You're on the lowest rung of the food chain, and if he sees it fit, he'll devour you, and anyone else that stands in his way!"

"Don't you fucking dare interrupt me. This is my work, my profession, and I think I know a damned sight more about it than you do!" The way her voice shook only made Nick retreat into himself further, but she saw that his sight-line had drifted to some distant spot, as it usually did when he was forming a response, "There's justice, Nick! There's this thing called 'accountability', and Bogo needs to be made accountable for his actions. The mayor is going to launch an internal investigation and there'll be hell to pay for what he did! He is not going to get away with this."

"Justice? You wanna talk about fucking justice?!" Now he turned to her and extended either of his paws, having left his pockets, body looming forward as he stood his ground, "They're all paid off, and they'll do anything to stay in power! Power tends to want to stay in power, fucking hell!" He raised an accusatory finger, "And Lionheart is in on all this, I can fucking guarantee that! By exposing this all you're doing i-" Now it was her turn to cut him off.

"Oh, you didn't just drag Lionheart through the mud!" Each breath she drew between long, animated sentences wanted to claw its way out of her lungs and lunge at him, "He was the one that believed in me, and in integration from the start! If anything, he'll listen to me."

"Do you even hear yourself right now?! Judy, for fuck's sake, be reasonable!" They were at odds now, divided, parted by an imagined line pulled in the sand of their living room, "Bogo can destroy you. He can crush you completely! Not only does he know everything about you, but he also knows everything about me! The police have me on file!"

"So that's what this is about, then?" Tears welled up in the corner of her eyes, but not tears of sadness; roaring fury commanding her to release it, to manifest itself in everything, from her posture on down, "You just want to save your own skin! Fuck what's just and what isn't, you just want to make sure you're not implicated in this!"

"How can you possibly say that? I've always supported you in everything, consequences be damned!"

"Why run now, then?" This was a challenge, and for a moment, she felt an urge to mock him and espouse the idea that he was frightened, but she caught herself; between the outwardly erupting fury, turmoil tore at her from within. What was she doing? Why the fuck were they screaming at one another? Why was any of this happening? "Why turn your back on justice now when you helped me uphold it in the past?!"

"Because this isn't about fucking justice! That term doesn't exist!" His eyes narrowed and his voice shrank, until it became a mere whisper, "Do you think that any of them give two fucks about the law? Do you think they actually give a fuck about the letter they helped write? This is control, Judy! They're fucking controlling all of us, but they themselves are at a point where they can avoid following their own commands so long as it suits them. Corruption is the end result of this shitty fucking system, and they've rigged the whole thing." Judy said nothing, and the tears that streamed down her cheeks grew stronger, more vicious, and more painful; now they burned, like fire, "Bogo, Lionheart et al. are getting a whole lot of money out of this. They'll investigate the things they need to in order to maintain the illusion of control. The illusion that everything persists, but beneath the surface, they're just taking and taking. The prisons are full of innocents! They shut down or pay off anyone who stands in their way."

"How the fuck do you know that?" The bunny hissed at her husband, "Since you seem to be so fucking certai-"

"Listen to me, Judith. I spent my whole life on the streets. I know how this goes. I've seen foxes arrested just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, foxes that did nothing wrong. Foxes, hounds, wolves, the marginalized and hated of society. We're despised for who we are, for what we are!" He spat and began pacing slowly, turning to face her with every second word, "And you tell me they're not corrupt. The law, as if. Fuck that. There's no law that says you're not allowed to be a fucking fox, but that never stopped them. Or do I have to explain what'll happen if I'm found walking through the wrong neighbourhood at the wrong time of day? They'll kill me! Thousands are killed every year by trigger-happy police officers that have nothing but suspicion to go on, and their asses get covered by the department as soon as the demands for an internal investigation grow louder!" This she could not deny; Judy knew the statistics. But long ago, she had sworn to change them, "Lionheart and Bogo are symptoms of a rotting world, a carcass falling apart from within, and they've built the supports for their own terror. Bogo is safe, and so is Lionheart, and the rest of them. Nothing is ever going to happen to them. Twenty-five fucking years of this, Judith! And you think that you and you alone can fight off a system that is entirely and wholly rotten from within? Don't kid yourself."

"You're the one that's kidding yourself..." She demanded, but the uproar that fueled her burned out in the absolute, and it was barely a whisper; what was there left to prove? He was wrong, of course. Bogo was an isolated case. He was alone. Justice ran between all of them, they had all gotten into this for the same reasons, and the fire of justice isn't something that can be extinguished at will, "I'm going to do it, Nick."

"Okay, sure! Do it! Fucking..." He wrangled the report off the table and threw a stapled pile before her feet, "Do it! Send it to him, right now! We have six bullets, and we can comfortably use two to fucking shoot ourselves before a heavily-armed SWAT team bursts into the apartment and does the fucking job for us!"

"I am willing to die for this!" It was an instant admission, and one she had not thought about; it merely slipped her tongue. Nick's teeth retreated beneath his lips again. His ears rose for a moment, and then fell again, no longer jutting behind him vitriolically.

"Well..." His paws rose from his sides, and broke again; he had no strength left, "Then so be it. Our future..." He looked away, and then his shoulders jerked, but momentarily; and then a sob, gentle, barely there at all. Judy watched as her husband fell into the armchair beside their television like a rag-doll. Nothing. No words left. Running, screaming tears, beating the walls of her consciousness down, "Judith, please...not like this." For a moment, he covered his face with his paws, but they slipped once more, revealing a broken visage; desperation coursing in rivers down his cheeks, "He said he was going to kill you! He said that we would never be able to adopt, that it would all be taken from us, and now you're running into...into this just..." Nick's paw waved at nothing, "Justice doesn't fucking exist! You cannot fight this, and if you do, you can not win!" Anger, fury again, but from behind almost hysterical gasps, "You're killing us both by pursuing this, Gods help us..."

"I am just one, Nick." Judy's own tears mirrored those of her husband but her back grew rigid; feet beside one another, paws folded solemnly over her abdomen, and head hung low. Parade rest posture, "But I will change the world. I will not accept that Bogo cannot be defeated. He is mortal, just like you and I."

"Don't you see?!" He begged, "Don't you see what's happening? Fuck the greater good! The world will never change. The rich will get richer, the poor will get poorer, and the innocent will die! I tried, Judith. I tried and tried my whole life, but to no avail. And now you're going to lose your head over it..." His paws folded atop his lap in supplication before an unstoppable force, "I love you so much, oh Gods, I love you...don't do this..."

"I need to be alone." Those words again; Judy wished she had never spoken them, but now it was too late. So it was all true. The sideways glances, the silent condemnation. Nicholas was afraid of everything and everyone. He was afraid of the truth. But she knew better than that, "I...I need to think."

He nodded, but said nothing. The door to their bedroom slammed shut. The thud rang out for a very long time, through the silence. He could hear nothing coming from the other side. At least from where he was sitting. She did not lock it. But she may as well have. Nick sat in the chair. He said nothing. He thought nothing. Nowhere to run. Protect her from herself. His wife, the most precious thing he had in all of creation, had just decided that she was going to destroy it all, because of justice. Had he any energy left in his body, Nick would've laughed. The ridiculousness of it all was far from lost on him. A bunny with a heart of gold, rushing into an unwinnable battle to die for an idea he had never believed in. He tilted his head to the left, and then to the right, observing his paws as they lay draped across the tips of the armrest, limp at the wrists, and turned downwards. Nick raised them. For a long time, he simply looked at his fingers. Nothing could be done about this. He loved Judy; still, despite what she claimed, and despite her actions, he knew that it was all confusion. She was lashing out at what she perceived to be the cause of the agony in their lives for the last few weeks, but aimlessly so, and without clarity. Nick knew he could not walk into their room, sit at the edge of the bed, and explain in a single breath why they all lived a lie. A foreign sensation crept up his back: helplessness. In his mind's eye, he saw his younger self, in his room, clutching all he had left of his father; the simplest chequered tie one could find, but it still seemed loud despite one's choice of clothes. He would bring it to his chest and take deep breaths of it, trying to bring back images that lay burned into his mind, when he was still far too young to recall them. Whether his father was one person or many men remained up to debate. Foxes came and went. But none stayed. Now she too turned to sand. Judy turned to that tie. Shimmering on the surface of some alien lake lay her image, dashed by a cast stone he could not retrieve, and the more the waves radiated outwards, the less of her stayed. He rose to his feet. Standing by the window, he looked out, paws in pockets, gaze cast down, and the endless, winding streets. Zootopia.

These were their lives. The lives of others. In those inane crime shows he sometimes caught on television, the victims of conspiracies were always someone else, far away, never to enter the existences of the everyman. But now it was them. The lights became fires. Their orange glow turned to a treacherous reminder. Fuck this city. Fuck its people. "Where anyone can be anything." Printed in block at the city limits, this was the first sight of Zootopia for many of its newcomers. Nick chuckled weakly. It was a half-laugh, borne of desperation. Father, gone. Mother, forced into doing things he could never begin to quantify, and still refused to think of. And in the middle of it all, wedged firmly between these serpentine shapes and crawling concrete burrows, lay a small fox. Smaller than anything. Helpless. What was he to change? The mind of a woman which, when made up, would persist until her dying breath. Death. What would it feel like? Would the bullet break his ribs on the way in? Would it be a sharp, brief, momentary pain that would fade into a deep cold, or would it be a head-shot, where his entire visage would crumble, and the sum of his memories spill against the ground, broken mirrors never to be recounted in their old way again? And what came after? No Gods. Tools of control for a populace too ignorant to know otherwise. The clerics that ruled them propagated the government's narrative. What were you before you came to be, Nicholas? What lay in the age that preceded wakefulness? He looked behind himself. At the end of the room lay a square door, with three bolts, two locks, and one peep-hole. Threshold of their home. Golden gates to an existence parted and divided by differing viewpoints. Do not argue about politics. But when she was ready to die over it? Of course he would. A terrible idea arose as he looked up and down the egress dividing their lives from the outer world; run. Judy had done this to herself. Leave, right now. Leave, and never return. Save your own skin. Father.

He turned to their bedroom door. This was it. This was the sum of everything he had worked towards, in there, the sole reason for existing in a world of agony and lies, curled up between the sheets, probably crying. Nick felt it too. The first strike of some deathly bell, to toll the arrival of lawyers, and procedures. Adoption papers? The fox frowned meekly. Divorce papers, more like. His fist pounded against his thigh. He glanced down, and attempted to stop it, but it beat on. No, you fucking idiot. Don't. You're better than him. Your whole life you've been told what you are, and what you should be: a fox. Destined to leave when things get hard. Just like your father. His mother had never likened the two, except once, in the midst of a terrible fury. He had truly angered her, and she spoke those words he never wanted to hear; "You're just like your good-for-nothing father!" Apologies followed, desperate explanations of her actions as she attempted to fix it all, but they would forever stick with him. He loved his mother; Lucille, a woman that had everything taken from her. And now Judy was suffering the same fate, at the paws of worthless progeny, genetic detritus left behind by a wandering sack of shit that may as well be dead by now. No, Nicholas. You are going to fight this. He pulled the fridge open. Within lay more testament to their existences, shared, parted mutely, divided into two, but fundamentally one. He took out a beer and opened it using the edge of the counter-top. It hissed, and he drew from it, deeply; tasteless. Erase, erase, erase. You are better than him. Fuck his father. Fuck him. Never again. To the bedroom door again. Go in there, talk to her. You're both going to die. God is dead. God was once a magnificent creature we had created, going by many names, but fundamentally the same, and everything the idea embodied lay broken. Orange fires burning beyond the restraints of their windows. Nick looked upon the papers he left on the kitchen island for her to sign. He moved closer. At the bottom of it lay a pair of signatures; J. Hopps, written as one, in a clear, flowing line. Underlined once, with levity, just like how he refused to sign his. By contrast, his own signature appeared rigid. What did they have if she did not pursue this? What existence were they to live for the rest of days, if they survived? An existence marred by status quo. To face their children and say they quit, and yet instil in them the values of perseverance and fight. These imagined effigies of them were no better than Bogo himself.

Die, Nicholas. Accept it. Your time is running out, and now you too shall meet your bloody end at the gleaming tip of an executioner's blade. In a sense, he understood now. Justice was not concrete. It was an abstract to Judy, as naively as she understood it. A tenet that needed to be stable and firm for the rest to work. This was not his own, special little fight. Of course he was afraid for himself. Grander purpose. "Fuck the greater good." It was spoken in anger, and he did not believe it. His whole life spent treated like trash, but he knew stories of a society, a place in time when all were equal, and all looked forward instead of down, to their own coffers, to line with pilfered gold. Judy wanted that back, even if she had no knowledge of it. Nick's back straightened and he finished the beer in one quick go. Tasteless. It rattled as he set it down atop the counter. Walking to the bedroom, he stopped outside of it, and thought; I, Nicholas Piberius Wilde, am ready to die, for the sake of impossibility. Nothing lay ahead of them but the slope of destruction. I, Nicholas Piberius Wilde, take thee, Judith Rose Hopps, to be my lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, 'till death do us part. This fit the definition. An oath taken, of commitment, and he was not going to surrender at the pyre of those that had betrayed and belittled him his whole life. If there remained a single inkling of fight within him, he would take it. So he stood at the gates of a future more terrible, a flip-sided coin, a janusface of himself in the great celestial mirror, where all hung and nothing persisted; but there was a cause, and he was going to fight. Father. Not again. Not one more time. History may repeat itself, but he would ensure that this never happened again. He slipped his wedding ring off his finger. Beneath its hem lay a string of engraved words: "Ad multos annos, ad futuram memoriam, ad finem saeculorum, de consortium omnis vitae." Latin, circling the entire inner rim of it, fine print, engraved using a laser. After weeks of deliberation and careful consideration, Judy chose this, on a whim, and he immediately accepted. Translated, it read "For years to come, in everlasting memory, and to the end of time, the unity of our whole life.". Nick had the entire phrase memorised, and he did not read under his breath as much as he recited; no matter what, despite the rushing waters that seek to rend and usurp, their unity will remain.

The door pushed open soundlessly, and Judy glanced behind herself. There he was, in the frame, an outline of himself, with the whole house dark. His scent, his form, it returned as one. Through tear-stained lenses, she beheld her husband. He said nothing. All he did was walk up to the bed, and sit on the opposite end, away from her; she had taken the blankets and wrapped herself in them, to hide away. It creaked beneath him, in that one spot where the wear and tear of their beings had made an indentation, but all he did was watch her; now the light struck his back, from the street. A crescent of orange, the colour of summers past, scaled his face, and surrounded his right eye. From the depths, green emerged, shining almost. Glossed over by tears. He too had been crying. Come to terms with it all; Judy pulled the blankets ever closer, but remained, hoping to drag him closer, just to feel him again, the way she had felt him before everything came to collapse.

"I love you." The first words he spoke to her, and she wanted to respond, but he continued immediately, "Nothing is going to change that. There is not a thing in this world that matters more to me than you. Not even my own life. My own life, without you, is nothing. Not only am I less, but I am nothing. Letting you go into this alone and seeing the predictable outcome means leaving everything up to chance." Tears returned, but she willed herself to silence, to listen. His voice was hoarse, riddled with evidence of sadness and weight, but the lightness of his speech turned to a story. Pluck against the harp strings, tug on them, press, push, and pull. He continued spinning his web, "We can fight this. So long as there is an ounce of struggle left, and so long as there is the slightest possiblity of victory over evil, over injustice, and over oppression, we will fight. I will not give you up to death without it taking me as well."

"Is everything you said...true?" Judy's voice beckoned from that space between spaces, where they lay, a slice of day where nothing was real, nor was it a lie; the umbra between sleep and wake.

"Yes, but..." He cleared his throat, "There was one part where I was wrong; you cannot beat this alone, that much is clear. But you will not be alone. There are thousands, millions whose voices have been drowned out by the few. Together we will stand and fight this. There is still justice. You see, I thought you were talking about the letter of the law. About the corrupted, reasoned, and firm truth they had built for themselves, for their own profit, with no connection to the real state of play. But now I can see, Judith, that this isn't about that. This is about the concept of justice. The idea that all must be equal before the law, and that nothing shall escape its grasp." Judy's mouth hung open as she gave a weak nod; for the last hour, she was fighting his words, fighting his ideas, but she came to accept them, to accept his experience, despite being firmly convinced that it had all ended. That Nicholas has not, and will never understand why it is that she kept fighting, "We're different people. We have different experiences, different sums of ourselves that led to who we are now. You and I, we were separate before we became...one. But at the core, we want justice, freedom, and equality for all. That's why you went into this profession. And that is why I resent never having done the same." 'Till death do us part, she mouthed, "I will stand beside my wife until the dying hour comes. I, too, am ready to die for this. Because, in the end, we'll go together."

"What about our future..?" The bunny could hold back no longer, but she wiped her tears quickly, and without delay, "What about adopting and stability?"

"What good will it do us?" He shook his head, "None. Together we promised to teach our children virtue, to help them be the best people they can be in this cruel world, but how can we do that when we ourselves ran from what needed to be done when the time was right? None of it matters without the other. It will be a half-existence, Judy. I want all of you. I need all of this. I need our whole lives, unabridged and without pause or separation." He moved closer, and without a moment's hesitation, her cheek found his shoulder; a deep, loving embrace, but not one of desperation: purpose. Keep fighting. Beside you sits the reason why.

"I love you so impossibly much, Nicholas Wilde." She kissed his cheek softly, and he gave a nod, and kissed back, but landed on her lips, holding for a moment. In that space of seconds, his paw moved up her chest and settled between her breasts, feeling for her beating heart, for the gentle thud beneath her skin that let life course through her, through the sum of it all; after death, came unity. With everything. With everything he had ever felt. And she would be there with him, the atoms and molecules that made up their souls dancing with one another until the end of time itself, until it all became another heavy dot, another spot of matter to expand yet again, and begin anew. The fifty-billion year heartbeat. One dies to give life to another.

"See this?" He whispered softly and her eyes moved down, to his paw; tiny strands of her fur had wrapped themselves around her finger and each stroke pushed only more of it up to meet his touch, "Your heart is so fast under my paw. So fast and alive. This is why I was afraid; I was afraid I'd never feel this again. It isn't just the beat that I adore, but what it means: there is immaculate goodness beneath. At the core of it all, you're the kindest person I have ever met. Over the last two years..." A pause occurred, but only so he could kiss her nose again, "You've shown me things that a younger me could never begin to imagine. Here's a creature that's selfless to the absolute, willing to do whatever it takes to give others a better life, free of worry. I could say that that's the reason why I love you, but...it's only a small part of your being. There's so much more."

And so he spoke, softly, in a half whisper, telling her of hills and valleys, of sailing, ships, endless, immaculate seas, of a life yet to come, and the odds, but there was no cold to find him now; no fear to pursue him with promises of certainty. There was a basal clarity: if they were destined to face death, they would do so together. Nicholas Wilde was at peace. In time, her breaths turned level, her nods had faded, and humming lungs became soft, purring snores. He lowered her into their bed and wrapped his arms around her waist, gently, still clad in his shirt and loosened tie, not caring a damned sight about the fact that it would be a mess in the morning; all he could think of was her. There were no dreams to find him that night.

Only an eternity of warmth.


	7. Government Plates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little preface is in order here, I believe. This chapter contains radio codes used by law enforcement. Don't worry, no need to Google anything! You'll find a glossary of those used at the bottom of the chapter, along with a note of mine! Have fun reading!

Early bird gets the worm. Nick had that phrase etched on a post-it note attached to his monitor at work, but he wasn't the one that had written it. Calling it a present would be a stretch, but Lewis made it out to be one; the otter had his entire workspace covered in utterly humourless 'demotivationals' and snippets of back-page cartoons from satirical publications, and more than once Nick had caught him with a coffee mug in his paw, looking over each of them and giving a light chuckle after reading. How did he not get bored? To the fox, they were on-par with those utterly tacky pieces of driftwood one could buy in an assortment of 'home improvement' shops, laden with trite messages to be hung in kitchens and living rooms, lauding some impossible existence of 'hard-working paws crafting a house, but loving ones crafting a home' and some such nonsense. Most of them were aimed at couples that needed reminding of exactly why they were together during each and every waking moment, and no matter how many times Judy would squeal at finding a particularly lovely one (or idiotic one, from his point of view), he would not budge in his resolve to never allow one to cross their doorstep. But somehow, Lewis was right this time, and as soon as they had awoken, she set out to make some coffee while he ran through her report. It was a staggeringly massive amount of work, the scope of which he had failed to consider during yesterday's outburst and consequent emotional turmoil. However, once the pages were bared to him, the astuteness of her conclusions made his mouth hang open with a sort of awe, both at her perseverance and her sheer reasoning. That was far from saying it was a flawless report.

"Step one to any good investigation is gathering more evidence." Judy dug into her eggs hungrily while Nick read out. The sound of his voice lay starkly juxtaposed with the gentle drumming against the windows, and the hum of the wind as it battered their home; they had awoken to a grim, colourless day, and at the foot of the bedroom window lay the streets, shimmering with countless puddles, "Connect all the pieces, reconstruct the scene, learn not to rely on eye-witness testimony, and finally..." He set the stack of papers down and sighed a bit, leafing through the stack with his fingers, and letting the sound of bristling pages drift through the air, "Be ready for anything."

"Exactly." He turned and saw his wife motioning towards him with her fork; her paw lay wedged under her chin, and she rolled the scrambled eggs around the plate, eyes moving from one peak of white-yellow matter to the other, "Frankly that last part is just there to give the whole thing flavour. But you get the idea."

"Your report is great, but..." His feet began moving of their own accord and he paced from one corner of the kitchen island to the other, pausing when he spoke, "A lot of this is just theory. Whenever there is a lack of facts to go on, you bridge the gaps using phrases and quotes from a variety of sources." Nick leafed through the second set of pages and stopped halfway through; it fell onto the counter with a dull thud, and he turned it to Judy. Her work was divided into sections, each concerning a critical component of the case: victims, ballistics, blood analysis, residual damage, and so on, including an entire two sections covering Bogo's possible involvement in it, partially constructed from his publically available profile on the ZPD's homepage, which Nick had printed out for her, "You address the ideas behind the correlation of response time and efficiency of investigation, but none of the figures you provided for the response times themselves are hardly accurate. So you supplement that using theoretical notions."

"I went with what I had. This is just a first draft." She admitted with a nod and continued working her way through her breakfast, lovingly prepared by the fox opposite her, "Trust me, once I've got more information regarding the case, this'll be a breeze."

"That's another thing we need to take into consideration." Nick added the stack to the others and closed it, breaking the momentary silence by dragging a stool towards himself to sit on, "How're you going to get it? Bogo's barred you from any involvement in the case."

"Well, once I get to work, I'll scope out the situation a bit." She spoke calmly, and her unflappable demeanour was further accentuated by her lack of usual morning cheerfulness; weight hung in the air, and her behaviour reflected that, but she stood strong in the face of it, "See where the cracks are, and if I find any, I'll give them a bit of a nudge, to see whether they'll grow." Nick nodded; it was a sound plan, but an unrefined one.

"Define 'cracks'."

"Anything out of the ordinary. Thelonious has a routine. Always did." Another pause hung in the air, and Nick could see the gears in his wife's head turn as she chewed; setting the fork down, she pushed the plate away, and he took it, lowering it into the sink, "If he's engaged in any sort of illicit activity, especially relating to covering up this case, it will show."

"That's a good approach, but you're a patrol officer." He laced his fingers together under his chin and watched as she gave another gentle nod, "You cannot be in four places at once. Not to mention that you being spotted would cause you to be shot on sight. Honestly, I think it would be for the best to wait for now. See what happens." With that, Nick stood and stretched, throwing his back out a little bit, which gave a soft crack, "Key phrase here is knowing your strengths."

"Of course." Judy followed him to the bedroom, and watched from the door-frame as he began removing clothes from the closet, "So, what are you gonna do on your day off?" Her husband's eyes drifted over one of the loud, Hawaiian shirts he had in spades, and he combed his paw down it, flattening out a crease he had evidently spotted.

"I am going to..." He paused as he pulled the shirt over his head, and she laughed softly as his head pressed through the collar, fur standing on end, ears taking a moment to straighten out again, "Meet with some old friends of mine."

"By 'friends' you mean 'criminals' and 'petty riff-raff', right?" Of course she had read him for everything he was worth as soon as he opened his mouth. The bunny took a step towards him, and her ears perked at the happy sigh he gave, bending into her touch; two light paws combing down his neck, promptly subduing a few erring tufts of fur, "Then again, do I really want to know?" He gave a soft, almost flirting laugh as he leaned in and kissed her on the lips, eyes shutting as he kept his muzzle beside hers, their breaths mingling at the thresholds of their lips.

"You most certainly don't." Nick bobbed his head a bit as he felt a tug, and looked down, to find Judy's paws tightening the knot on his tie, "Why thank you, sweetheart."

"Don't mention it." She cooed in response, and they parted, either half giving a glancing comb down one another's bodies with their paws; this wasn't common, but then again, so weren't the pins and needles Nick felt as she did so, "Keeping an ear to the ground, huh?"

"Always. I've been told that good journalists do best if they keep a finger on the beating pulse of society." An interplay of glances and smiles had formed between them, and Judy seemed to almost dance around him as he readied himself, leaning against the closet one moment and eyeing the motions of his paws as they tugged his trousers up, to leaning in and giving his head a tender nuzzle as he rose; to each of those gestures he responded in kind as best he could manage, "Playful this morning, aren't you?" He crooned.

"Don't tell me you mind it." She teased him with a whisper and he could do nothing but nod, "Thought so. After all..." A tug on his tie had brought their noses close once more, and his gaze softened, turning almost passionate despite knowing, in the back of his head, that time was short, and they didn't have enough of it to indulge in one another further. Lest it lead to something more drastic, such as having his wife's ankles atop his shoulders and his ears filled with her whimpers and shaky breaths; far from him being opposed to that idea, though, "You do know that I have a soft spot for bad boys."

"Mhm, that I do." The fur on the back of her head felt impossibly soft beneath his fingers as his lips found their mark once more, pushing and pulling gently, playing with her responses, in the same way she played with his, her tongue playfully pressing between them to catch its opposite, "An officer of the law, aroused by the idea of her husband associating with the criminal element?" A soft laugh, protracted into a loving little sigh, slipped her parted lips, "Scandalous."

"Nick..." Another gasp, this one more melodic, and far less restrained, ushered in by a row of kisses up and down the side of her neck; he truly knew each and every single one of her soft spots, "If you don't stop right now, I am going to throw you into bed, ride you senseless, and then we'll both be late." Despite the husky tone and sensual presentation, her words were cautionary, and he got the message instantly, but not before giving her bottom just the slightest, almost stolen squeeze; she laughed loudly and swatted his paw away, "Nick, I'm serious, stop it!"

"Well, you say that, but..." A pinch ought to do the trick, and she yelped for the second time; why, it did. What a surprise, Nick thought, "I'm not the one putting a stain on my jeans right now." Despite the fact that her head was firmly tucked into the arch of her shoulder, he could practically hear her cheeks flushing, "Oh yes, don't think I didn't notice."

"That wasn't on purpose!" Her insistence was purposeful, but weak, and he could hear her audibly panting into his ear; sleeping in the nude led to some interesting occurrences in the space of time before they got properly dressed, "Maybe a little bit on purpose."

"While I do admit that my imposing height does make me look a bit like a pole, that's no excuse for grinding on me." This time, she laughed, and the soft slaps against his shoulder drew a chuckle out of him as well, "Oh, and a laugh too. When will she stop exploiting me like this?"

"You're an ass, Wilde." Another kiss, against that space between his neck and right ear that always drove him crazy, "I love you."

"I love you too." He released her and watched as she chased around the room in search of her underwear; the sight of her rump she gave him each time she bent over was no accident, and he was certain of it, but one glance towards the kitchen confirmed that she only had twenty minutes until her shift began, and therefore, no time to take care of the bulge which had formed in his trousers, "I'll get the report together and wait for you in the car, okay?"

Nick searched for an umbrella to take with himself, but the only one he found lay mangled in a pile of old things, wedged firmly between two cardboard boxes and bent in the middle; one box contained a crockery set that was intended as a wedding present, but now lay there, forgotten and gathering dust, while the other grasped stacks of old home redecoration magazines that Judy would leaf through in her spare time. Most of them were either in French and in Italian, and Judy did not speak either. But she collected them, and occasionally flipped through them, looking for ideas to improve their surroundings. None of them ever came to fruition as something always distracted her, but the times when Nick found her lying on the sofa, covered by a blanket and armed with one of these glossy publications, he'd always feel they had a purpose of sorts. The umbrella felt light in his paws, and even lighter when it left them, smacking against the wall and sliding down to add to a pile of similarly disused items. To say the couple wasn't neat was an understatement. Nick was a downright slob, the subject of Judy's many lectures for his habit of leaving things wherever he last used them, while she herself was often too busy to clean up behind herself. At times, he would call her out on the hypocrisy, but all she would do was shoot him a glance, and he wouldn't mention it again.

"Umbrella's fucked." He called across the house, and Judy emerged from the bedroom at once, fixing the zipper on her uniform, "Can you fetch our jackets?" They had a pair for light rain, and given the temperate, and mostly perpetually stable climate of Zootopia's central district, thick, winter clothes were left unused, taken out of their clear packaging only during those rare times they'd go to the Tundra district. Sure enough, a thin, black raincoat landed in his paws, flung from the bedroom door, "Thanks, whiskers."

The roads were mostly empty that day, and he watched her drum impatiently on the window with each pause at the stop-lights. Naturally, she was nervous. He was too, but it didn't show. The thudding of her busy fingers mingled gently with the rain and the squeak of the wind-shield wipers. I really ought to get those rubber tips replaced, he thought as they made another pass, and gave a particularly brisque whine of protest. Another light, another pause. A few moments to reflect. His eyes met hers in the shimmer of the passenger-side window, through which she was looking. Briefly she turned to him, expecting him to say something, but he remained silent; so she gazed back out again, at something wholly undefined. The bruise around her eye had shrunk considerably, but there were still rather obvious traces of crimson in the corners of her left sclera. Sometimes she would narrow her eyes in response to a flourish of light. But there was a comfort of sorts in seeing the boxes of untouched painkillers on the table. To endure. It tugged at him a bit, but the pain he felt that first night was almost fully gone. Now they were doing something about it. Happier thoughts, he mused, happier thoughts. Valentine's day was approaching quickly, and his mind pointedly recalled that fact. Dinner at Ralphio's was too played out. Something else? Perhaps a concert? He'd have to wear earplugs, but for her, that would be a small price to pay. In the corner of his lips, a smile appeared, and images of her jumping up and down excitedly as he told her of her present began forming, wholly imagined, but the emotions they provoked lingered. Thinking ahead helped. Soon, his spirits had been lifted. Despite their loving play that morning, Nick felt slowed, and almost detached from his surroundings. How did she do it? How did she remain this focused when so many things rested on this? He wound the corner to the police station; it loomed beneath the grey skies like a mausoleum. In sunlight, its many windows created a play of reflections, to the point where it bothered some of the neighbouring denizens. But it did its job, that glow. Inviting and trusting. To contain its secrets. You could never see through the dome from the outside, but the view from within provided a frog-like lens to the towering business district, at whose edge it lay. Towers stretching up, with increasingly more innovative peaks, from the curves of the DNKY headquarters, twisting into a slight warp at the very end, to the TeleTopia complex, imposing and rigid, marked prominently by a jet-black roof. It spoke of raw power. Thousands upon millions of petabytes of data lay funneled through that structure each day, and within it, as he imagined, lay a central mainframe, logging everything, keeping track of everyone. Had he any idea of how to fight it, he may have even been scared of such a proposal, but given that it wasn't going anywhere any time soon, Nick simply learned to live with it.

"Here we are." He'd always say that, to no-one in particular, and the parking light switch blinked idly in the middle of the dashboard as he braked in the crescent driveway, "Be careful, Judy." There was no point in accentuating it; no point in saying it, even. Now she was in her element, and utterly unstoppable. Pride and fear mingled within him. This is why you love her: the drive.

"You worry too much." She leaned off the seat to give him a parting kiss, but her eyes drifted downward, and she sighed a bit, her paw finding his forearm and giving a narrow, comforting caress, "And you be careful as well, darling." Her ears parted only in the slightest to allow his lips passage to the top of her head.

"I promise I will, Judith." The click of the door let a gust of cold air in, and he watched her pause with apprehension before stepping out onto the pavement. Her appearance was official, and regal, with her uniform hidden loosely beneath the swaying overcoat, "I love you." That was the second time he said it; there was no daily limit to how many times those three words got passed between them, but it never lost its novelty, nor the comfort it brought.

"I love you too, Nick." She stood on the pavement for a moment as he drove off, watching him; tales of sailors flooded his mind, a parade of wives waiting at the edge of the docks for their husbands to return. But it was a reciprocal sensation. The plunge into the cold, dark waters of the unknown and clearly dangerous was not one he took alone. But for the rest of the day, he would wistfully count the minutes until he got to see her again.

* * *

"Good morning, everyone." To say Bogo looked haggard would be an understatement. Bloodshot eyes, uneven gait, and slow movements prevailed over his usual air of unyielding presence. A moment of silence for him to take the room in. Judy sat front and centre, as usual, sitting on her paws and putting on her best, excited smile; the bruise stung against her skin, but she willed it away, "Business as usual today, nothing outstanding. No major cases to report, at least not for you lot." That last part was subject to perpetual repetition. The folders were passed out at once, by an aide that had been summoned for that purpose alone; Judy had not seen him in the station before, and she imagined that he worked one of the other floors, or perhaps another district entirely. Their station was unique, simply because of the diversity in arrivals and departures. Patrol cars launched from their lot swarmed all over the city, from the Jungle district, to Sahara Square, and this meant a great deal of strange faces she could never get used to. This particular one was a camel, unsteady on his hooves and looking nervous, but there was little hurry. Roll call came; Judy listened for her last name, and upon hearing it, looked to Ritter. Patrol duty again, as per the usual. They filed out silently. Bogo remained behind, with his forehead sinking into his hand a bit, but Judy had no time to observe. The wolf in front of her was already making for the elevator.

"We're in central today." He remarked as they rode downwards, surrounded by an army of other officers; Judy felt small once more, which was common, given the stature of her fellow officers. Standing heel-to-heel with a rhino always produced that effect, and now she lay wedged between one, and a horse, whose head she could not even see from his shoulder. But it was a mercifully brief ride, "That means we'll just sit there and do nothing for a few hours." Ritter was right. Central district duty was by far the most tedious. Most of the residents of Central were well-behaved, and in little mood for trouble with the law. Four precints meant maximum coverage. The insinuation of omnipresence was enough to deter nearly all criminals, save for the most stupid or the most organized of them. Their car was Henry 9; a sleek machine, tall and powerful. Painted black and white. Standard issue, save for a small label in the front, lovingly hand-painted by Ritter's previous partner, now retired: Unstoppable. It had earned itself this nickname after ploughing through four chain-link fences, two empty light aircraft, and an airport baggage trolley, and still driving away safely. One of Ritter's proudest arrests, and the car was a trophy of it. Judy knew that the wolf had little in the way of marital obligations and he frequently stayed behind after close of duty to polish and preen the machine. As a consequence of that, it was the best-maintained car in the entire precinct. And it purred steadily, no matter its surroundings; some of the other cars could not handle the high temperatures of Sahara Square while others sputtered to a grinding halt in the sub-zero climate of Tundra Town. But Unstoppable lived up to its name. Come rain or shine, pursuits were always an option. Ritter climbed into the driver's seat, and Judy followed.

"Let's get this show on the road." She clamoured excitedly as the folder lay open on her lap; already looking over the points of interest and red lettering, indicating recent incidents. Each folder contained a map, outlining their recipients' area of duty. Just sought of Zootopia Central Park, between the conference centre and Old Town East. Calm and complacent residents, most of them upscale in both their behaviour and their status, would lead to a day of waiting, as Ritter stated earlier. Routine became different today, though, at least to Judy. As he scaled the ramp skilfully and drove out into the city, she would look over her shoulder, almost anticipating an attack of sort. A threat. Something to follow her. Eyes to watch her every move. But all she saw were the alleyways and massive intersections of the business district. The engine droned in her ears. Ritter muttered something as a passer-by sped across the pedestrian crossing. Soon they arrived in their assigned area, and found a parking spot, just beside a small, protruding square with a fountain in the middle, its waters disturbed by the drizzling rain. Ritter light a cigarette, and offered Judy one, which she gladly accepted. It had not occurred to her at all that it had been days since she last smoked, or even felt the need to, but the warmth filling her lungs was a welcome distraction.

"So, how was your weekend?" Small talk, and Judy shrugged; what was she to say? Nothing special, just scheming how to bring down the entire command chain of the ZPD? She nodded tiredly instead.

"Same old, same old. Films with Nick and work." Almost in congruency with one another, they took drags, and the paper crackled in unison; a soft noise, "And yours?"

"Wife seems increasingly eager to spend less time with me." This was something Judy knew in superficial terms only; Ritter's marriage was either falling apart, or a matter of procedure and honorifics, unconsummated and utterly detested by either party, but accepted as a fact of life, "Which works for me, since I get to pass the time with me, myself, and I." He also frequently pointed out how much he enjoyed being alone, but this was tertiary. Everyone did, in certain circumstances. He watched as a citizen, a three-toed sloth, slowly lumbered past on his way to work, "That guy must've started yesterday if he's here now."

"Yeah, I have no clue how they do it." Judy remarked, and she truly didn't; how were they on time for...anything? "Nick and I counted once. It took a sloth we saw nearly two hours to eat a cone of ice cream."

"They're quite charming once you get to know them. Whole different mind-set." Ritter shook the ashes from his cigarette into a small, purpose-built cup in the divider, and Judy mirrored this. Smoke hung around them, but neither officer cared, "The whole world is so utterly fast to them. For the average sloth, watching someone else consume a plate of spaghetti at a reasonable speed is like watching Superman do it." Judy gave a quiet laugh; Ritter was known for his observations of life, brimming with humorous inserts and plays on words, "To them, life is nearly endless, and they live very long to begin with. Almost one hundred and fifty on average, with the miracles of modern medicine." The bunny whistled a bit in surprise, "Yep. Every decision they make day-to-day is a massively serious one, as it could take them hours to abort an action, let alone do it fully. But they're almost always stunningly intelligent."

"How so?" Judy asked, and he shrugged.

"I'm not sure exactly how it works, but they do mental tasks such as reading and calculating things at the same speed as you or I; their thoughts are not slow at all. Just their world." He stamped the butt dryly against the ashtray and crossed his arms, turning to Judy slightly; brown eyes, like all other wolves, "So they read pages of books quickly, but take an age to turn it, meaning they memorise most of what's on said page. Re-reading it out of boredom, I guess. Memorising a textbook for a sloth is as simple as leafing through it once. Combine that with their lifespan, and you get an entire university's worth of the world's slowest academics in even the smallest group."

"I could never imagine living like that." Judy admitted softly; knowing that much about everything must become a burden, and she almost said as much, but Ritter leaned forward suddenly, seemingly having spotted something out of the ordinary, "What is it?"

"That guy..." He pointed; a lumbering polar bear lingered in the vicinity of a trash can, looking almost nervous, and getting absolutely drenched in the rain, "Is he going to drop something in there?"

"Should we take a look?" Ritter shook his head and raised his free paw.

"Not yet, keep watching." They did. The polar bear looked around himself again, and reached into his pocket. It was a brief flash, but clearly there, and Judy nodded to herself, "Okay, he dropped something. Call it." The engine roared to life again, and Ritter motioned to the radio. Judy got the message at once and depressed the transmission key.

"Dispatch, Car Henry 9 in observation of a 10-66, possible 10-70. We are 10-97, requesting permission to intercept." There was a hum of static before the radio returned a response.

"Dispatch, 10-4 Henry 9. Cleared to intercept. Ida 7 is 10-98 if needed, over." Silence draped itself over the vehicle. Ritter drove slowly and carefully, keeping the car at barely five miles per hour as he crept closer, sirens off; on the prowl. Their prey looked around himself again and began walking faster, and Ritter retaliated by pressing the pedal down further. His eyes lay focused on the road ahead, and that was for the best, as Judy's fingers began digging into the leather armrest; show no signs of weakness. Pragmatism, professionalism. Focus, Judith. This is routine. A mere thirty feet away, and the suspect still hadn't spotted them. Ritter slowed the car, and shut the engine off, letting it slide for a few more feet before stopping it fully. The polar bear turned, and his ears shot up; and then he ran. Mistake number one.

"Go, go, go!" Ritter's voice rang out and Judy shoved the door open. The rain bit at her eyes, but all she saw before her was the shrinking effigy of their suspect, and his beating, frantic stride. Fastest runner in the academy. Truly, he stood no chance. This was a matter of time, and Judy knew it. The bunny launched herself up from a half-kneeling posture and began following the polar bear. Pursuit on foot rule number one: the suspect will use his surroundings to deter you. He swerved rapidly, around a corner kiosk, and as he passed under its awning, he yanked down a stack of post-cards forcefully, sending them spilling over the pavement. Judy jumped at a critical moment, dodging both the postcard display, and the irrate shopkeep that had come out to bellow vague threats. A mailbox went tumbling second, and she jumped over it again, catching herself on a nearby wall and only gaining speed from it. Air rushed past her ears. Wind bit at her features, cracking her lips, and irritating her nose; the rapidity of her breaths only made it that much harder to breathe through her nose alone, and with each deep inhale, pacing them carefully, the cotton slips in each of her nostrils slipped back a little bit. Nick had made them thick enough. They wouldn't go in fully. Focus, Judith. She was so close, too. Almost close enough to touch the ends of the polar bear's overcoat. Between the sound of four racing feet, hers and his, she could also hear a second stream of breaths, significantly deeper and uncoordinated than hers. Either she would catch him or tire him out. This was a zero-sum game for the perp either way.

Pursuit on foot rule number two: the suspect will make several rapid turns once you're close to shake you. Anticipate each of them. Judy did just that. If he took a rapid left to avoid a pedestrian, so did she. And so it went. But his motions grew increasingly erratic, and she could see his feet slipping, losing their grip against the bare cement. A matter of time. Rule three was simple, and to the point: most of the time the suspect will corner himself. The polar bear ran into an alley, making a diagonal for it, and proceeded to sprint down it despite the officer behind himself. Chain-link fence, much higher than he was. He ran at it with all he had, and jumped, but merely managed to get halfway up. And by that time, he already had someone on his back to worry about.

"Freeze, you're under arrest!" Judy bellowed as she clung to his coat, and her feet kicked at the backs of his legs, avoiding each swing he directed at her with his free paw. One more, and he was going to go down. A single, black claw passed directly overhead. She ducked in time, and the bear lost his balance completely. Squarely on his back. This was a bigger target than she had anticipated. She drew her taser; a single, red dot, menacing and precise, worked its way up the polar bear's white forehead. He knelt before her and raised either paw.

"Please, don't shoot!" Not a deep, booming voice as she had expected, but a thin and shallow one instead, and he had no fight in him, "I won't hurt you. I...I don't want to hurt you!"

"Good." Judy lowered her weapon, "Paws behind your head." He did as she instructed him, and watched her.

"You don't understand..." He pleaded, and she nodded stoically, pen and paper already in paw, writing up the details; the shiver in his voice made it all the more obvious that he didn't pose a threat, "I..." The suspect quieted down completely, and took to looking at her in a rather strange way. Something glimmered in his eyes. Panic. Terror. This wasn't a criminal begging for his life. This was different. Judy's instincts hummed. Something wasn't right. "You're...holy shit, you're not one of them, are you..?" Now he managed an impossibly wide grin, "You're really not! Finally, someone that will..."

"Calm down, sir." From suspect to victim in a matter of seconds; 'routine' did not even begin to cover it, "I'm going to need an explanation." Despite her treatment of him, her posture was a defensive one. Lean forward, one paw ready to grab, second paw ready to seize her weapon again, and either foot planted for maximum jumping capacity.

"My name is Adam Baerton, I'm twenty-seven years of age, and I didn't run away from you on purpose." Eloquence returned to him. She nodded sharply, "I didn't choose to do what I did. I...I can't tell you much but...get a bomb squad to that trash bin as soon as you can. Evacuate everyone." Judy's eyes went wide at once; the entire back of her neck turned to a jungle of grey bristles, all standing on end, drenched instantly by a deep, cold sweat, "If you don't, innocent people will die." The way in which he enunciated that sentence send shivers racing up and down her spine. Four words, pronounced slowly. The polar bear's gaze was fixed, and icy, completely serious and devoid of fear. This is not a joke, her mind screamed, not a joke, not a ruse. He didn't even blink.

"I'm sorry, I don't..." She began, unsure of what exactly to say. What answer was there to give? The words grew within her gradually. Shock took over every ounce of strength she had, but before she could respond in any coherent way, the screech of tires echoed behind her.

"No, no, no!" Baerton scrambled and fell back, feet kicking wildly, pressing him up against the fence, "They're here! And they're going to kill us both!" Judy glanced behind herself at once, drawing her weapon again; it was their patrol car sititng with its side to the alley. Her paws dropped slightly. Behind her, Baerton took deep, panicked breaths, verging on hyperventilating. Cold sweats. It was a police car. Her car.

"Hopps, did you get him?" Another voice called to her, and it took her a moment in her disoriented state to ascertain its source; Ritter, climbing out, with a taser drawn and aimed at the scene. His shadow crept over her, "Everything alright?" All she could do was give a transfixed nod, and put her weapon away. Now they turned to their quarry. As far removed from routine as possible: paws raised defensively over his face as his whole body shook. Not a criminal, Judy thought, mind beating at a thousand miles per hour. The adrenaline from the pursuit and the ensuing struggle still held a firm grasp on her; not a criminal. Innocent. Bystander. Victim.

"Let's get some cuffs on h-" Ritter's words seemed to top dead in their tracks within his throat as he made eye contact with the polar bear; from the side, Judy could see and sense nothing but pressure. The wolf cleared his throat, "Cuffs on him. Sorry. Hoarse throat." Judy's muscles turned to stone as she observed the way in which Ritter spun the suspect around and applied the cuffs, with two swift and practised motions. Innocent people will die.

Baerton made no trouble for them as they pushed him into the back of the car. Not even Ritter's gentle push against the top of his head made him stir from his near-catatonic state. He merely stared ahead of himself, taking deep breaths from time to time, to calm his racing heart, evidently still usurped from his attempt at fleeing. Both officers sat in the front, with a steel mesh separating them from their suspect. The calmness of her partner only made Judy more concerned. Something about the way he coldly slipped the buckle of his seat belt into the buckle irked her. If she, a patrol-woman of two years and little practical experience, could at once sense something being off about the entire arrest procedure, there was no doubt that Ritter could sense it too. A group of pedestrians waited behind the vehicle and promptly moved out of the way as he threw it in reverse. Usually, suspects would curse and scream at the officers, and some even kicked against the armoured divider, demanding they be released and pleading their innocence on the way to the station. Violence would mix with desperation, with tales of lives ruined by their departure, or impotent threats against the arresting officers' families. But Baerton said nothing. One of the lessons they were taught at the academy was to ignore that. To shut off the sounds of cursing and screaming and focus on the road ahead, or light conversation with their partner. This wasn't necessary given the present circumstances, but Judy still asked about the weather meekly. Ritter did not respond. He drove onwards, stopping at each light and waiting for the traffic ahead to clear; each time a car stopped behind them, she felt trapped, as if all her routes of escape had been cut off, but no matter how hard she tried, Judy could never give concrete form to exactly what was chasing her. She reached for the radio.

"What are you doing?" Ritter asked, and Judy dialled the Dispatch frequency into the device, turning the knob slowly, until the orange numbers showed 855.23 MHz; for some reason, he had tuned it off frequency. All cars were permanently dialled into Dispatch unless stated otherwise or in a multiple unit situation which called for car-to-car contact, and even then, addressing them over the Dispatch frequency meant that all vehicles in the area had clearance on that wavelength. The sharpness of the glance he gave her was not lost upon her, but she pressed onwards, still fine-tuning the scanner.

"I'm calling Dispatch and letting them know we have the suspect, and I'll let them know about the packa-" A large, grey paw reached for the radio and switched it off. The orange back-light drained from the display and the speakers gave a soft pop, their usual response when shutting down, "Ritter...?"

"That won't be necessary." He looked away again; completely calm. No emotion in his voice, and evidently, no cause for further discussion. Above them, some of the clouds had parted, giving the street they drove down a glimpse of sunlight, and passing across the hood of their car, which illuminated the countless drop sitting on the hood. As the rode became lost beneath them, the line of light moved up, scaling Ritter's face and torso; the taser on his hip, secured in its holster, reflected some of it. Judy tore her eyes from it and stared ahead. None of this made any sense to her. All she was doing was following procedure, "I already notified them of the arrest."

"And the package?" Keep your tongue stowed, Hopps, her mind begged, but she whisked it away; not a chance. The whole nine yards, "What if it contains explosives?"

"Checked it as soon as you ran off. Old newspapers wrapped in cardboard. This guy..." He pointed behind himself with his raised thumb, and in the rear-view, Judy saw Baerton's gaze sink, "Is obviously crazy. We're probably doing him a favour, returning him to whatever institution he got out of." No further questions, she mouthed and looked to her own window. Nothing to catch her attention. Something pressed gently against her back. Judy shook her head. Obviously just the rocking of the car. But then it happened again. She turned a little bit, only to find Baerton leaning back as far as he could, hiding behind Ritter's seat, outside of his field of vision; the polar bear, posture cramped by the relatively small amount of room in the back, quietly motioned for her to look forward again. It was obvious what he wanted. Adjusting the rear-view mirror would get Ritter's attention. But she could not see Baerton's face from this angle. Think, Judy, think. They were only three streets and two lefts away from the station. Time was running out, and quickly. She moved her paws to her lap, and jerked them upwards rapidly, and sure enough, her left knocked her paw-held transceiver from its seat, and it tumbled to the ground, skidding along the divider and passing by the gear-stick until it stopped just short of Ritter's foot.

"Sorry, I'll get it." She apologized swiftly and leaned to the side to reach; Ritter was still staring ahead of himself. Good. Judy deliberately let her fingers slide along the edges of the device so that she lost it a second time. Not in a way that put it out of her grasp, just in a way which delayed the process for as long as possible. Once she was firmly outside of Ritter's vision, unless he looked down, she turned to the rear-view. Now Baerton was fully within her view. He was mouthing something quickly. The bunny tilted her head and mouthed an interrogative 'what' back.

"Do. Not. Trust. Him." Panic had returned to Baerton, and his whole body shivered with visible anxiety; he too sensed that they were nearing the station, "Trust. No-one." Judy nodded. Her breath stalled. Ritter moved his foot aside quite deliberately. Thankfully, she had pulled her fingers out in time, before he stepped on them.

"Got it." She threw the transceiver into the air and caught it with false glee; it was a double statement, directed in part at her partner, and simultaneously, at Baerton. Ritter gave a weak chuckle and a nod. This was his way of appearing normal. Nothing out of the ordinary, "What's the plan, then?"

"We get this guy booked and into a temporary cell. And then we're done." The wolf steered with his elbows as the car drove down the ramp, and lodged itself inside its parking space, the two spaces on either side of it vacant, "They're probably gonna run a breathalyser test on him to see if he's intoxicated, get his prints, and process him." The wolf looked behind himself, "No worries, sir. We'll have you back to your caretakers in no time." Baerton acknowledged this with a scowl; there wasn't an ounce of mental instability to be found anywhere in him, or his behaviour, and Judy knew this. And she knew that Ritter was aware of it too. Step one to any good investigation is gathering more evidence.

This phrase haunted her as they boarded the elevator, and now she stood between Ritter and the suspect, paw habitually resting on her belt, with a thumb looped through it. The thudding of her foot had thankfully been drowned out by the noise of the ascending elevator. An hour and a half had passed since they went on patrol, but Judy felt as if it had been days. Moment stretched into nothingness. If Ritter hadn't been as collected and distant as he was, she may have even been scared of him. A passing sense of fear gripped her as she thought of the moment when he switched the radio off. So close to grabbing her. Who were they going to believe? Bogo's words returned like an echo in her mind. Who were they going to believe, Judy? He was untouchable. They filed out of the elevator doors in a straight line. Baerton at the front, cuffs held tightly by Ritter, his other paw on the polar bear's back, and Judy at the end of it, watching as they walked across the long hall; this was the first subterranean level of the station. Armoury, patrol processing, and suspect exchange; the neon sign opposite the elevator said as much, and they turned left, following the arrows. A long, concrete hall, done up in featureless white brick, with a shielded desk at the end, illuminated by flickering neon lights, the plastic covers of which had been stained yellow by age greeted the solemn parade. Judy quickened her step until she caught up with Ritter, but found him predictably staring ahead of himself. They stopped in front of the desk window. Ritter knocked against it, and its shutters went up at once.

Procedure unfolded before her eyes for the next half-hour, but her mind was elsewhere. Seeing this happen for the hundredth time nullified the effect. The suspect transfer department was headed by Trisha Rodgers, a tabby cat, astoundingly soft-spoken for someone that had to deal with the underbelly of Zootopia on a daily basis. She had a way with words, mostly because she had to. Judy would often wince at how the other officers treated her. Female patrol-women were rare enough, but a female desk-jockey or pencil-pusher, as they called them, was a prime target for insults, teasing, and an assortment of dreadfully sexist remarks. In time, Trisha accumulated a stunning glossary of come-backs and under-pawed insults, and she had little restraint in using them. Ritter's greeting, preceded by the nickname "yarnball", was promptly deflected by means of a frankly scathing remark relating to his masculinity, or lack thereof. He laughed. Of course he did. But Judy knew that it had stung, mostly from the way Trisha held herself. But the cat's thick skin came at a price. Even friendly remarks were often responded to with hostility, but Judy could not blame her. A long time ago, she decided that she would befriend this strange creature, dwelling in the cold basement of the precinct, and for a while, they regularly exchanged messages on Furbook, but that was a long time gone. Now they'd wave at each other and smile, but nothing beyond that. It appeared as if Trisha's choice of post was a thoroughly deliberate one. The basement provided silence and solitude, and a sort of detachment from the world above. The way she grasped the form, stamped it, and dropped it in its corresponding chute spoke of years of practice. The metal door beside the desk buzzed, and Baerton was led inside. He cast one last, parting glance at Judy over his shoulder, and she gave an impalpable nod, but saw that he understood.

Trust no-one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm breaking my silence again to clarify a few things, and deliver on my promise of a glossary. This chapter is slightly shorter than what I usually post (average chapter length is eight and a half thousand words, and this one is the shortest so far, standing at 7,490 words), but given its dialogue-heavy nature, I don't consider that much of a problem. First of all, why is Ritter and Judy's car named "Henry 9" and not "Hotel 9"? That's due to the differences between the IACO/NATO standard radio alphabet and its law enforcement equivalent. For this chapter I used the LAPD radio alphabet since it is the most widely known iteration of it, and is mostly standard across the US (don't quote me on that, I'm just too lazy to source it properly). Hotel becomes Henry, India becomes Ida, and so on and so forth. Onto the police codes used. I found these on their corresponding police codes page at radiolabs dot com. I am not entirely sure whether or not these are correct. If any of you work in law enforcement, let me know, and I'll correct them.
> 
> 10-4: Should be self-explanatory, but for the uninitiated, it means "affirmative". You've probably heard this in thousands of films and video games, along with some lesser-known codes.
> 
> 10-66: Suspicious person.
> 
> 10-70: Prowler, identified as an individual suspected of attempting to secretly commit a crime.
> 
> 10-97: Arrived at scene/on the scene.
> 
> 10-98: Available to assign, meaning that a car prefixed by that code is available as back-up, should it be needed.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I love each and every single one of you!


	8. Pursuance

On the surface, Zootopia's Central District had a sense of unity about itself. It was a complex machine of many thousands of moving parts that all interacted with one another, giving as much as they took, and existing simultaneously within themselves and for themselves. A vast space in of itself, internal divisions amongst its residents created a fugue between identities; by accent alone, one could determine with some degree of precision where the person they were conversing with hailed from. The lower East districts, by the docks, had their own particular way of accentuating the ends of sentences, and with the large number of overseas immigrants that had settled there in the time since Zootopia's inception, their way of life was in of itself unique. Home to pleasant board-walks in the summer and strong gales in the winter, it was simultaneously comfortable enough for its denizens, and off-putting enough to deter all but the most adamant of new arrivals. Just ten miles south of this cosmopolitan harbour lay the isolated middle city, the most conservative of all the districts, and also the most expensive one to dwell in. Over the years, the many summer mansions built there had fallen away into tall residential blocks, with naught but wide parks and endless belts of green to divide it from the remainder of the city's heart. Parts of it were stuck in the old ways, with wealthy families having spent almost a century and a half at the top of Pancontinentia's business elite, but on the streets, they would mingle with the new youth, the faces and voices of ages to come.

Perpetually clinging to their cellphones, informed and opinionated, but ultimately too withdrawn and insecure of themselves to initiate coherent change, their appearance was a matter of laughs on the internet. They spoke with a sense of aloof self-importance, or a false pretence of being down-to-Earth and amicable. The roads continued further, in all directions, but most notably, North. Through the middle of the city, and along the sparsely-populated business district, ran a beating vein, the core of it all; nicknamed 'Electric Avenue', Stilton Street had been the sales district since time immemorial. Old, massive shopping malls, done up in marble and stone, and constructed at the dawn of the consumer age juxtaposed starkly with new commercial developments, but they had one connecting feature; the endless jungle of glowing neon signs and flickering broadcasting screens that turned the entire sixty-five mile run of concrete into a single, continuous commercial for whatever was topical at the time. Old black-and-white photographs, taken in the heyday of the aforementioned malls showed them plastered with advertisements for tobacco and cigarettes, dancing with uncertainty at their own future, spending a year or two affixed to their allotted façade before being taken down in favour of something newer, better, and invariably, more expensive. The more things change, the more they stay the same, Nick mouthed to himself as he did his best to work the tight traffic that Stilton was known for; rows of cabs. Few animals in Zootopia drove, and most that did were relegated to second-class citizen status, forced to wait out the cabs, the buses, and the odd above-ground subway intersection. In time, a knot had formed atop this beating neon vein. Currency Plaza was its unofficial name, its more permanent moniker lost to the ages, and if the rest of the street was a symphony of commercials and advertisements, this place was the hyperbolic end result of it all: the fronts of the buildings had become fully invisible, utterly lost behind a thousand miles of LED lights and glistening orange ticker tape. Not an ounce of space lay wasted, and what little of it remained, suspended in a form of capitalist flux, sold at an astronomical premium.

However, the shine of it all was lost on Nick, and while he did find himself oddly entranced by it at night, the drab morning only made it worse. It somehow exposed the falseness of the slogans and the air-brushed nature of the models even more than usual, and all he could bring himself to do was stare ahead, at the tail-gate of a yellow cab. His fingers drummed impatiently along the worn leather of the steering wheel; the entire interior of the car looked worn and stained with age. At the time of its purchase, Nick and Judy's assets lay freshly united, but a simple stock-taking of it proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that a means of transportation was of the lowest priority, and had to satisfy only a fraction of the demands it usually would; four wheels, a pair of seats, and a roof was all they could afford. And now they took turns driving a calamity waiting to happen. It sputtered, stalled, turned poorly, braked with difficulty, and had a clutch made of solid steel, unmovable by animal paws. There seemed to be nothing in the car that wasn't broken in one way or the other, and Nick ran his mind across all the faults once more, with nothing else to think about. Its turn signals were subject to the most arcane wills of chance and divine intervention alike. Sometimes they would blink obediently, and at others, they would get pulled over for having a broken tail-light, seemingly out of nowhere. The right wind-shield wiper moved, but only barely, while the left one would sometimes swing so hard, it bent itself out of form. Starting the car up on cold mornings was impossible. Within the cabin itself, the problems continued. The passenger-side door had a mind of its own, and once opened of its own accord in a sharp turn, which nearly gave Nick a heart attack. But whenever the vehicle was stationary and the occupant of that side lay in no danger of falling out abruptly and without warning, it would suddenly stick, and only a persuasive blow with one's foot could convince it to budge. The radio was perpetually tuned to the Zootopia Top 250 station as Judy had attempted to tune it once and promptly broke the knob. If Nick wanted to listen to music beyond his own selection of CDs, all he had on offer were early-morning shock jocks, slews of identical-sounding pop songs, and some of the most annoying commercials ever devised by animal kind, at least one hundred and fifty percent louder than whatever non-corporate programming preceded it. But he loved that car. Perhaps not, he thought, forehead thumping dully against the arch of the steering wheel; perhaps I have merely convinced myself that I do, so that I don't take it to a mechanic. That would be quite the show. Diagnosing what exactly lay at fault with it would take up the greater part of a month. And then it would be declared unsafe to drive and condemned to rust away in some impound lot. The cab in front of him jerked ahead. He pressed the gas pedal. Nothing happened, except the obvious. A choir of irate honks and clamouring voices, only partly drowned out by the beating of the rain. Throw it into neutral. Back into drive, let go of the clutch, and try again. This time, it moved. Nick sighed. An hour more of this, and I'll be there.

When he told Judy where he was going that morning, and she correctly assumed where, his destination had become cemented. Until then, it was more of an arcane idea. Hit up some old buddies with less-than-legal errands on the side. Keep an ear to the ground. But nothing real. After all, it had been nearly two years now since he last associated with any of them. Their lives could've gone either way, and Nick was certain that some of his more distant acquaintances in the trade, with whom he communicated maybe once or twice, sometimes by means of proxy, had died; some of old age, but most likely due to a violent flare in someone else's temperament. If news of an assassination had reached him, Nick would've been thoroughly surprised. Only one group on the streets was powerful enough to order someone's death and carry it out. Gangs are small-time; they're disorganized, prone to emotional outbursts, and in a state of constant struggle with others over turf ownership. Oh no, Nick shook his head a bit as he thought back, there was someone else. The Mafia, the Family, the Mob, the Suits, whatever you want to call them; invariably, they held all the strings. And during his time on the streets, anyone that stood on the toes of any major organized crime syndicate didn't live for very long: that was their word to the wise. The first thing you were taught. Keep your wits about yourself and never interfere in the business of made men unless you were one of them. Some years ago, he had considered getting himself 'made' and entering the family business proper, but his reputation, as well as the fact that he was a fox, mostly relegated him to the role of a gumshoe or gun-for-hire, someone that was capable of doing deniable operations for the presiding family. Not only that, but getting 'made' required a vast amount of influence and power, comparable to running a small crime syndicate. In fact, most of those that ended up becoming a part of the Don's business had run small syndicates on their own and were eventually given a choice; either work for the Don and give most of your earnings to him as a protection tariff, or end up with five of your buddies, propped up against a wall in some old warehouse, quietly bleeding to death. No-one trusted foxes. Slick and smooth-talking, they were regarded with suspicion for their potential to save their own skin first; entering the organized crime business meant taking a vow of absolute silence. No law enforcement, no embezzlement, no stealing from the syndicate, and so on. Not a prime recruitment target in any case.

Conning unsuspecting citizens or running a quiet gamble on the side were the safe ways to earn money illegally. Laundering wasn't even a necessity, since the vast majority of funds obtained were fully clean. Resale of goods, building materials, or peddling of written-off stock from bulk outlets had a nice, clean ring to it, and with a good forger on your side, permits were obtainable for everything. Before Judy entered the picture, he even considered going legitimate; all that was needed were one or two alterations to the existing paperwork, a tax claim, and some land, and that was that. Fully legal. At times he would dream of this; anyone can be anything. Why couldn't a fox become a respectful businessman? But chance interfered in the crucial moment, and he met Judith. Two years later, they were here. Or at least he was, for the time being stuck in traffic on 87th and Bittermark, unaware of who he should go to first. How was he even going to go about this? Rock up to a bar in Lower East and simply ask about Bogo? The target of his haphazard investigation was probably already well-known on the streets. Police corruption was no secret amongst his own species. Berated and belittled for every little thing, what few representatives they had in the city council had been pushing for body cameras for years, to record procedure and make sure that everything was fully within the bounds of the legal. After years of stone-walling, it finally passed, by a margin of one vote, but corruption inevitably found a way; the cameras would fail at crucial moments or the defence would be unable to obtain footage, with the precinct involved often claiming that it had been deleted or misplaced, and sometimes even going so far as to plainly state their refusal to provide it. Unconstitutional and obstruction of justice, but what was an average fox to do? Barely enough funds to feed themselves or their families, suing for breach of constitutional rights would cost a small fortune, one that was either produced by a parade of loan-sharks or never produced at all. If the cops fucked you over, you couldn't just report them to themselves. Rotten to the core. He grit his teeth against one another. Who watches the watchers? No-one. Nick leaned back in his seat and drummed his fingers some more. Minutes away now. The rail line dividing the centre from its dark, forgotten edges came into view, just as a long, lumbering freight train barrelled past, probably laden with goods from the harbour.

His heart skipped a beat at the same moment as his car bounced along the raised edge of the rail crossing. The neighbourhood looked different than the last time he had seen it, but only superficially. The low brownstones still lined the narrow streets, and their narrow staircases, leading to the pavement, tended to play host to myriad colourful characters during warm, sunny days. But now everyone had retreated indoors. Citizens, and most of all visiting tourists, were sometimes advised to stay out of this part of town entirely. The instructions were simple: if your tire blows past the tracks, lock the doors, put a gun in your lap, and call the police. Do not talk to anyone. If possible, don't make eye contact. Nick wound the car into a barren parking lot adjacent to a closed-down gas station and turned the engine off. For a moment, he looked about himself apprehensively. This was Steeler Road, named after the old steel-works that hung low above his car. For years now, they had sat like that, dormant marvels awaiting a purpose beneath the ever-changing sky. At times, gunshots would ring out from within. Either youths practising their shooting, or made men taking care of business. Something moist ran down his upper back. He reached behind himself and wiped it away; sweat. Judy had truly changed him. Now he was afraid of the part of town he once called his own, and his former brethren turned to an amorphous threat that hung in the air. He was last seen with a police woman, assisting in solving a crime. Most would've immediately assumed that he had become a snitch, which was due cause for a bullet to the throat or at the very least a vicious beating. Nick spent a few moments waiting, looking around himself as the rain drummed softly against the bodywork. It would skid down the window apathetically, and with the wipers shut off and nothing standing in its way, the water formed long, dogged lines of pursuit, pooling at times. Nothing. No bullet, no knock on the window, no group approaching, armed with bricks and blades, ready to satisfy their own definition of honour. Just silence, and gentle, tender drumming. He reached for his raincoat. A brief struggle of pulling it over himself while seated ensued, but within a moment's notice, he was ready. The air was cold. A breeze blew along the barren trees just a little ways past the gas station, swaying the dead branches. The colossal furnaces hummed and whined as the wind pushed through the decaying supports; it was a profoundly chilling sound. Dead whales, gasping for breath beneath the surface of a pitch-black ocean. He stuffed his paws into his pockets and walked. Nowhere in particular, just forward. Rain struck his hood. Muted whispers, keeping him on his toes. Beneath the slickened black fabric, his ears moved and twitched rapidly, anticipating something, anything to break the tension. Nothing came. At the end of Steeler lay Bay Road, intersecting it perpendicularly, with houses on one side, and empty lots on the other. The fence of one still held aloft a sign reading "Join us today at Sunny Mills Estate!" with most of it covered in graffiti; one was a crude drawing of a feline penis, surrounded on all sides by tags and gang insignia.

Nick could not recall to whom Lower East Burrows belonged any-more. Some gang. A bunch of trigger-happy youths with a death-wish, bored by their lack of education and perspective, condemned to a life of crime. Live fast, die faster. But you died belonging to something. Jutting over the intersection between Steeler and Bay sat a neon sign. A buzz filled the air, drowned out partially by the rain; Cloverfield, known simply as 'the pub'. For twenty years now, the owner promised to fix the sign, and for twenty years, it buzzed, hummed, and flickered. The more things change, the more they stay the same, Nick thought as he pushed the door open with his elbow. Predictably empty in the morning. It was a downtrodden place, reflecting the outside in an almost synecdochical sort of way. A long, hardwood bar, staffed obediently by an army of desolate bar stools, and housing within itself a barkeep, currently busy reading the paper, his whole form obscured by it. Round tables as far as the eye can see to the left. Tacky art on the walls, stained and defaced by age, and poorly-lit by low-hanging lights, clad in green, glass lamp-shades. Chairs placed onto the tables, awaiting patrons that often never came, outside of rowdy Friday nights. Most people in Lower East worked two jobs to keep themselves alive, and leisure time was short; the weekend signified a time for getting trashed and indulging in carnal pleasures. Towards the back of the bar lay the pool room. Two tables, playing host to gamblers and challengers. They were here now, a porcupine and a weasel, neither of whom Nick had seen before, steadily improving their trick-shots and surreptitious methods to cheat out other would-be players out of their money. They gave him a momentary glance, but nothing more. Small-time and clean for the most part. Legal, too. Nick approached the bar and sat down. A sharp rustle of paper erupted out of nothing.

"What can I do yo-" The barkeep asked and gasped audibly; an older, rounder, and badly-shaven fox stared back at Nick. Louie, owner, sole proprietor, and far too old to do everything by himself, but whenever someone offered, he'd groan and wave his paw at them, "Well stick me in a dress and call me Dolly, it's little Nicky!"

"Yep, it's me. Hi, Louie." He leaned forward and put on his best smile; warmth swelled inside of him. Louie had served him his first beer, away from prying eyes, in the back office, at the age of fifteen. Source of information, gossip queen and, at times, a friend, "How have you been?"

"Fuckin' great, 'till you walked in!" Both foxes gave a loud laugh, and Louie prodded Nick's forearm with his elbow, "Been ages since I last saw you in here." The barkeep rocketed to his feet and immediately took to cleaning a pair of pints, one for himself, and one for his long-lost acquaintance, "Just about, what...two years now?" A pair of orange paws struck the bar forcefully, and Louie's smile sat wide and warm, "So, tell me, what's been goin' on with you?"

"Yep, two years." Repeating that fact out loud made the time seem a lot shorter than it actually was, and combined with the potent smells and sounds of Cloverfield, a rush of memories hit Nick. Parties, high school dances, birthdays, and the two New Years' he had spent in this red onion all flooded back in a waves. It was the heart of Lower East, to be sure, where the spirit lived, "I'm married now."

"No fuckin' way!" Louie laughed again, and stuck his paw out, which Nick shook gladly, "Little Nicky, gone and found himself a wife. Who's the lucky fox, then?" Nick responded with a tut and a shake of his head.

"Not a fox." The barkeep leaned back a bid and widened his eyes slightly, "A bunny." Nick raised his right paw and flashed his ring, "Luckiest man in the world, let me tell you."

"A bunny! Holy fuck, that's great!" If there was one thing Louie loved doing more than serving up beers and tending to his pub, it was swearing, "Never would've thought that a fox from a neighbourhood like this would find love with such a small piece of prey." The old man appeared genuinely gladdened by the news, and was now listening with both ears turned towards his customer, unwavering, even as he poured the beer from the fountain.

"Oh, and it gets better." This was it; Nick was in his element. He ushered Louie in closer, and the barkeep obliged, "She's a cop." The sound of the pint falling against the bar echoed for a moment, but Louie's experienced paws meant no spillage.

"Nick, Nicky..." The old man whispered slowly, "You didn't."

"Oh yes, I did." He drummed against the ring on his finger slightly, "First bunny officer of the ZPD, no less. Top of her class. She's su-"

"Keep a lid on this, would ya." Louie's expression turned serious, and there appeared to be tension in his voice, "My lips are sealed, but if the wrong guy hears you, you're fuckin' dead. They're gonna cut you up like Christmas roast."

"Relax, I'm not an informant." He insisted, but Louie gave a brisk click of the tongue.

"Don't matter 'round here." A finger jabbed against Nick's chest, "Way these guys see it, you're not only associating with a cop, you're fuckin' fraternizing with one."

"Don't worry, I'm not stupid." Nick leaned back now and let Louie finish with the beers, one of which he passed to Nick; small pints, but sufficient, "Just wanted to tell you. Figured you'd like to know." Now he regretted doing so. Despite what Louie promised, he had a notoriously loose pair of lips; time was suddenly a lot shorter than it had previously been. But at the same time, this was a serious matter, one which could result in a long-time friend's death. No, Nick decided, his secret was safe, "How are things around here these days?"

"Same old, same old." Louie jerked his shoulders a bit in a rapid shrug and he took a sip of the beer, "Bunch of kids set up shop in the old Fur-Mart not far from here, took to forming another gang. Things are gonna go down in the coming week. Problem is, ambulances won't even come close to a place like this." The older fox sighed a bit and swilled his beer languidly, "Eh, fuck 'em. Dumbasses."

"Yeah, what can you do?" Nick asked, purely rhetorically. Both had some ideas, but this wasn't the time for politics. He stared down his beer. Two sips. Still a lot left. Not nearly drunk enough to discuss matters of governance, "How's life been for you?"

"Well..." For a brief split-second, Louie's ears sank a little, "Daughter's moved out. Gone to college in Sahara Square."

"Really? That's good."

"That's what I told her. Study, kid. Only way outta this is studying hard and making a better life for yourself." The old man glowered with pride between hearty sips, "Top of the class. Real proud of her, even if her good-for-nothin' dad is just a fuckin' bartender." He shrugged again, "Outside of that, not much. Usual riff-raff, coming and going."

"Mhm, figured." Time to get down to business, Nick thought; beer on an empty stomach didn't do him any favours, but the lightness in his head helped ease the process, "Listen, Louie, I need some help."

"Anything for you, Nicky." This was a common phrase amongst his former cohorts, but Louie always meant it, "Whatever it is, I got it."

"Do you know anyone who's really in the know?" Both foxes knew what that meant, and Louie motioned towards the back of the bar, past the pool tables, taking his beer swiftly and nodding towards Nick's; clearly understood. He followed at once, keeping his gaze locked on the ground as they passed the two hustlers in the rear. No need to start shit just yet. Keeping your cool was imperative. Louie calmly unlocked the back room and stepped aside, letting Nick in first. It smelled the same as he remembered it; whiskey, cigarettes, and whores, as per the barkeep's own admission. These scents had mingled together to form something completely unique. Visually it corresponded to the remainder of the establishment. A single filing cabinet, bottom drawer missing, housing financial papers and the odd spot of hard liquor for when the older fox required a serving of liquid courage. In the centre of it all lay a metal desk, appropriated from some forgotten factory in a more stable time, filled with indentations and scratches, some of which Nick remembered making. When their parents had some official business in the front of the bar, Louie would let them play around in his office, and a lot of the damage in it was a palpable product of that. Times long gone, he thought and sighed a bit as he sat down atop the stool opposite the desk. This is where Louie received all his guests. His own chair was slightly higher than the old wooden implement, and behind him hung a diapilated cork board, strewn with outdated and current notes, and the numbers to only the best, paw-picked fast foods in Lower East. The stool creaked beneath Nick, and Louie reached for his cane, with which he slammed the door shut.

"Now, then. What do you wanna know?" The old man crossed his arms and tilted his head.

"I need dirt on the cops." He spoke barely above a whisper, and the old man whistled in surprise, "Yeah, I know, this could get me killed...but I really need it."

"You getting a divorce or something and need some dirt on the other half?" Of course that was his first assumption, and Nick deflected it with a nervous laugh.

"No, no, nothing like that. Marriage is fine. Just..." He shrugged. Straying off-point in discussions like these was rarely acceptable, but the barkeep seemingly did not mind, "Anything you can tell me about Thelonious Bogo?"

"Let's see..." Louie licked his lips and nodded to himself, "Chief of Precinct 14, inner city, if I recall correctly." The younger fox gave a nod and leaned forward a bit, "All I know is that there's rumours making the rounds. I haven't heard anything useful beyond that he's a corrupt motherfucker, but so is every other cop in this fuckin' town." He raised either of his paw, "No offence meant, Nicky." Respectful and polite, as always.

"None taken, Louie. And trust me, I know." He shook his head a bit, "Do I ever fucking know." Nick drummed his paw against his thigh as he pondered how to proceed, ignoring the cold memory that burrowed itself along the outskirts of his mind; the barkeep was always in the midst of things, and he knew for certain, at least a name if nothing else, "Anyone I could ask about this?"

"Not really, 'cept for..." Nick watched as the old man's eyes dropped towards the table in thought, "Fastback Bill."

"Never heard of him."

"Neither did I until a week ago." Louie explained, and rose a bit, as much as his visibly disturbed back would allow, "Turns out he's new to the scene. Some fuck from Oceanic City, in real deep with the lookouts." Those were the foot-soldiers that kept an ear to the ground relating to police activity, and while they were few and far between, and not very long-lived in most cases, their testimonies provided a treasure trove of information; Nick slapped himself mentally for not thinking of this from the outset, but Cloverfield would've been his first stop regardless, so he whisked that thought away, "Your best bet would be askin' him, but you'd have to shell something out in exchange. Bottle of wine or something should do it. Fastback's a bit of a drinker, from what I heard." Of course he'd know that, and Nick smiled in response, "He's out today, doing his thing, but he should be in tomorrow evening. Can't miss him. Tasmanian devil, loudest in the entire place when the bar's busy, always the centre of attention."

"Yeah, they're like that, the lookouts, aren't they?" The duo shared another brief laugh and sank into a comfortable discussion about times gone by, reminiscing over their drinks and exchanging platitudes and episodes from their lives over the course of the last two years. Louie had aged, and it was showing, but his natural humour and astute eye had not dulled at all. There was fire in the old man, the pressures skid row life bringing out a profoundly joyful interpretation of even the smallest titbits of it. Each patron had a tell, each patron had a running joke, a secret, a wife, a husband, this, that, and a plethora of other things, and Louie knew them all so well, he could list them off in the middle of the night. The city had its eyes and ears, and the barkeeps were the most accessible parts of them. Seeing everything, but never interfering. Talking, but staying just quiet enough to hear everything that was being said. They spoke of an age long lost the haze of memory, and Louie recounted the memories he had of mother and son, coming in on their way home from the grocery store to discuss the daily proceedings and passings of life. Matters of conversation ranged from one extreme to the other, but always concluded the same, with a smile and a wave. The greying fur of atop his ears and muzzle hid behind themselves a living mind, an inquisitive and curious one, perpetually active in the community. It was with a heavy heart that Nick bid his farewells to the old man, but he was in a hurry. For the time being, he got a name, and a place to be, and that concluded his side of the investigation for now. Nothing more to be done, no-one left to ask. Louie embraced him like a brother before he left, and gave him a kiss on each cheek, as was customary. He promised to give Judy Louie's best, and to let her know that if he brings her in here (outside of uniform, of course), they'd get a drink on the house. Nick's walk out of the office was a solemn one.

Cloverfield was a simpler, lighter, and easier time, one where the growing pains of a life on the street became mere whispers amongst the raised voices of the dejected and forgotten, clamouring amongst themselves, but united at their core, and pushing away the night inch by inch. This was a bastion of something firm in a world of constant, sometimes amicable, but most often violent change. He stood before its door for a little while, watching that sign, and quietly wondering whether he'd ever come to see it again, and whether this was Louie's final good-bye. With both paws fixed firmly in his pockets, Nick decided that it wasn't. By his agency alone, he would follow through with that offer, and introduce Judy to a world that was never her own, and the sole tether in the midst of it all. Beneath the rain's watchful eye, he made for the car, but continued well past the parking lot. After all, he had one more errand to run.

* * *

Nothing set apart this particular brownstone from any other, but Nick knew better. All the others bore cracks and fugues of age. This was the only one where he could recount each and every one of them by heart. He took a step up the stone stairs and onto the relatively small pedestal before the front door. He paused beneath it and, rain be damned, looked up. Tall and imposing, just like he remembered it being, seen from the view of a much smaller creature. A drop of rain struck his eye and he muttered a cuss before whisking it away with his sleeve. The door was simple. Two layers, one for residents of his size, and a much, much smaller one, reserved for the many rodents that dwelt amongst the partitions in the drywalls, in their own, minute apartments. He reached into his pocket. Within it rattled a small key-chain with four keys on it. Two were to his own apartment, one for the front gate barring entry to the stairs, and one to the door itself. One was for his bicycle. The last, small, and bronze, worn with age, belonged to this lock, and the one upstairs. This was his childhood home. A spur-of-the-moment decision took him as he left the pub, and he decided to visit his mother, last having seen her almost four weeks ago when Judy and he brought her groceries. It was a matter of melancholy mixing with a distant sort of fear. Always welcome at home, he mouthed as he wiped his feet, and closed the door behind himself. The hallways had changed substantially. Six months ago, he had convinced the landlady to paint the cracked stucco and replace it with something more permanent, and the effects of that particular change had already been marred by unkempt whirlwinds of dust and errant cobwebs, jutting out of the corners and swaying in the breeze. The smell of paint had dulled the scent of moisture and bad upkeep that marked his childhood, but the overall sensation of it was still acutely present, and memories pursued him doggedly as he scaled the creaking, wooden steps. Someone was yelling in an apartment on the first landing, while the door across from it emitted sounds of a kettle boiling and a radio conveying the daily news. One more flight, and he'd be there. A musty window sat on the half-landing, looking out towards the streets; cobwebs lay spun along its base. No-one had opened it in an age and a half. And there it was, at the top of the steps; home.

A door made of blank, faceless wood, but pale at the base from the moisture that permeated the entire structure so thoroughly, and the shades of this gradient lay vividly familiar in his mind. He stepped up to it, and wiped his feet again, this time to rid them of tracking any stray dust into the house. The sounds of a television bled through the thin wood. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. A narrow hallway rolled out at his feet, parting in threes at the bottom of it, with a small nook in the wall just to the left, housing a boiler and a washing machine. Immediately to the left, his old childhood room, closed and empty for many years now, but used infrequently as a space for guests. Straight ahead lay the kitchen and dining room, humble and small, with a table and three chairs, and a microwave that never seemed to cook the left side of whatever you put in it, probably due to its lack of a turn-table. And finally, to the right, the living room and the source of the racket. He took a step inside. Evidently his mother hadn't heard him over the television. A slew of loud cussing came out of the living room. Soap operas, of course. His mother watched them often, but whenever characters on-screen made a decision that didn't resonate with her own reasoning, she'd verbally abuse the television. When he was younger, she'd curb this habit as much as possible, but as soon as he said his first 'fuck', everything was free game.

"Someone on 'Hollyoaks' fuck up again?" He called from the living room door, and nudged it open. She sat in her usual morning attire, evidently having just finished breakfast; plain white t-shirt, grey sweatpants, and a robe she treasured like nothing else, despite its tears and many sewn-up holes. When he would ask her why she held onto it instead of buying a new one, she'd wave him off, claiming he wouldn't understand, but he knew the reason why. Her Chesterfields' fit perfectly into the breast-pocket, leaving just enough room for a lighter. Clementine Wilde was a woman of habit. Always sticking to her routine, any deviation in it would cause her untold ills, up to and including the point at which she'd claim that her "children" (an umbrella term for both Nick and Judy) didn't "love her enough" and how she'd be "dead any day now". If there was one thing she excelled at, it was making people feel guilty. She turned around in surprise upon hearing her's son's voice.

"Oh, you've come to visit me. Nice of you to do so." It was a simple acknowledgement, and she returned to watching her soap opera at once. Four weeks was an astounding length of time for Nick to spend apart from her, "Even if it is just one of you."

Such comments were par for the course. Clementine was a near-permanent fixture in the Hopps-Wilde household. Early in their relationship, while they were away on honeymoon, she helped herself to the spare key and cleaned up their apartment from top to bottom. While this caused Nick a great deal of annoyance, all of his CDs and films out of alphabetical order and singed by the signs of being cleaned with a wet rag, Judy was beside herself. In an instant, a bond had formed between the two of them, and soon enough, Clementine would be at their apartment each week-day for anywhere between two and five hours, cleaning, cooking, and making herself feel useful. Repeated questions pertaining to helping her by either of her children would at once be deflected with a soft tut and a shake of the head. She needed no-one's help but her own. Judy developed a sort of silent admiration towards the old fox. From strangers, to mother and daughter, the two became staunch allies. At times the two of them would unite in lecturing Nick on his slovenly nature, or anything else they found fit to scrutinize. One year later, and living without Clementine's cooking and lively complaining on anything and everything became cause for concern and a break in their daily rhythm. To Nick, the arrangement initially appeared strange, but Judy explained how it was a common fixture in bunny culture for nearly three generations of single family to coexist in a burrow. It was a simple matter of looking after your own. Besides, Clementine lived alone, spending her days at home chain-smoking and watching television, and despite her cold exterior, it was obvious that she appreciated the company. Not to mention that Judy frequently got homesick, parents living hours away. Having a motherly figure around put her visibly at ease. Clementine's habit was another cause for complaint from the old fox. It was by Nick's insistence that she had been barred from smoking anywhere in their apartment, so he would find her on the landing in front of the door, sitting on a stool which she had brought with herself for that purpose alone, permanently insisting that the weather was far colder than it actually was. For the first few months, it was Nick that drove her to and from her apartment, but then one morning she arrived early, having taken the bus, and nothing was the same since. Come rain or shine, Clementine would board the 111 at the crack of dawn and go to the North Burrows, using the same method to get home later in the afternoon.

"Yeah, yeah, we're a bunch of deadbeats. C'mere." He wrapped his arms around his mother from behind and gave her a nuzzle, which she returned, "What's new?"

"Absolutely fuckin' nothing." She rose to her feet and made for the kitchen just as the commercials came on. At times, Nick could swear she had a sixth sense for the television schedule, "Haasen is dead." Nick's eyes widened a bit. Their next-door neighbour, a bunny just like his wife, but a diametrical opposition to Judy if he had ever seen one; unpleasant, loud, and at times violent, he lived with a quiet and withdrawn family, "Heart attack. Dropped in his sleep."

"That's a shame." Nick commented, and his mother shook her head wildly.

"Not at all. His wife looks positively relieved. As do their twelve kids." She paused as he poured herself another cup of tea and dropped a bag into it unceremoniously. The old electric kettle rattled as she filled it with another go, to make one for Nick as well, "Good riddance, I say. Wife-beater."

"Glad to see you've been active in the community." He quipped and she pointed a jokingly stern finger at him.

"Don't give me that attitude, young man." Clementine was looking directly at him; grey muzzle, profoundly grey ears, but not slowed down by that fact in the slightest. He watched her zip around in the kitchen, adding milk to her English Breakfast and setting the carton down onto the table for Nick to use while he held his tongue, knowing full well she'd just shake her head and sigh if he offered to help her, "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"The pursuit of fond memories." She tilted her head at him sceptically, "Actually, work-related stuff. I'm doing a report on poverty in Zootopia, and this was my starting point."

"'Course it was." He pulled his chair back a bit to let her sit closer to the table, and she rolled her mug in her paws, letting the liquid whisk about; spoons weren't her thing, "How's my daughter-in-law?"

"Doing well. We've signed the adoption papers not too long ago." This made his mother's ears shoot up with glee, and she smiled.

"Nicky, you're gonna be a dad!" In an instant, the cold exterior melted away and she turned to a fine liquid putty, "Oh, I'm so glad. I can't believe it." She leaned back and gave a wistful puff, "I'm gonna be a grandmother." Of course; between cooking and cleaning and her usual topics of conversation, mostly complaining about her health (which was flawless for her age, but she felt the need to complain) and the current state of politics, she'd vie for the chance to become a grandmother, talking sweetly about kids to Judy whilst giving Nick the same old speeches about becoming a man. Clementine lived in a different age, where domestic life was vastly different. At one point she even tried to convince Judy to quit her job and become a housewife, which led to a long verbal fight between the two, and some bitter words, but that was a very long time ago.

"Yep, I'm getting old." It was Nick's turn to mirror her melancholy puff, and she laughed, "What's so funny?"

"Oh fuck off, grasshopper." His mother slapped her thigh slightly, "If you're old, I'm basically dead."

"Gosh, you're morbid." The tea was made to perfection, with just the right ratio of milk to flavour, and the very slightest half-teaspoon of sugar, "Anything else new around here?"

"Crime is running rampant, but that's normal. It's just us older people now." She drummed her spoon against the edge of her teacup, "Every youth that's got half-decent grades ran off to university, and the rest are in gangs or working for the mob." He took a sip at the same time as her, and the split-second of silence lay parted by the sound of pigeons fluttering away in the alley, and a feral dog barking somewhere in the distance, "Can't sleep from all the sirens. It's getting ridiculous."

"Well, Judy and I told you before..." He pushed the teacup aside and folded his fingers across one another, "We're going to be moving house as soon as the papers get approved, and you're more than welcome to move in with us. The kids'll be glad to see grandma every day, and we won't have to charge for a babysitter."

"And what, give up the last few smidgens of independence I have?" She scoffed and adamantly shook her head, "This apartment is a holy place, Nicholas. It has been my home for over forty-five years, and I will not budge from it, understood?"

"Yes, mother." He nodded respectfully, but he knew that she'd change her mind; when alone with Judy, they seriously discussed the idea, and at one point she even admitted to being scared of the crime and the solitude, and how she had trouble sleeping from all the noise in the surrounding apartments. A brief, separate discussion followed between Nick and Judy on this later that same day, and the decision was unanimous. Over the last two years, his wife got so used to having her mother-in-law around that moving in would be a change hardly felt at all, save for her endless complaining about the new living conditions which would fall away in time. All she needed to be content in life was a working kettle, a terrestrial TV connection, and the companionship of her two children, and Nick knew as much. Only problem was that if she no longer complained about the bus schedule, she'd complain about something else, most likely the fact that they're spoiling their kids. They sat in silence, drinking tea and watching one another, observing the surroundings. The fridge idled behind her, giving loud, laboured drones with each cooling cycle. No wonder she had trouble sleeping. Paper-thin walls, annoying neighbours and a leaking roof. Along the walls ran endless, tacky, green wallpaper, and the whole house smelled of age. He hadn't been in his room in a while because there was proverbially nothing there any-more. Clementine moved her sewing equipment into it as soon as he left, and now worked in it for at least three hours each day that she wasn't at theirs, doing odd tailoring jobs for the neighbourhood and getting paid a small amount for it; but her bread and butter was the gossip that each customer brought. Clementine had two female friends, and they'd gather in her kitchen each Wednesday, to discuss who was 'screwing' whom and why, who was getting a divorce, who the new arrivals were, and so on, and so forth. Nick sat in during one of those meetings, having accidentally overstayed his welcome, and found himself strangely transfixed by the proceedings. At once he wanted to leave, as the conversation was utterly mind-numbing, and yet, despite that, there was a grain of truth to each story, and soon he found himself taken by the lives of these people he never met, said lives discussed mostly in less-than-savoury terms. The time slipped away from him, and he looked at the old clock, affixed to the wall just above the trash can.

"I really should get going." He necked his tea and gave a nod, fixing his tie a bit and leaning in to kiss his mother on the cheek, a gesture she returned with a soft embrace.

"Take care of yourself, Nicky..." So she did notice, he thought to himself. Of course she did. There was no way she wouldn't have. The bags under his eyes were haunting, and he imagined that his sclera were more than blood-shot, thus giving his mother more than enough evidence to go on. Oh, and the five weeks of separation, which she'd probably dangle over their heads for many months to come, "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you to, mama." He patted her back while she held him, and they parted, with him making for the door and her for the living room, "Don't go out after dark, you hear?"

"Oh sure, because I'm usually so well-known for my late-night escapades." Sarcasm, and he laughed; there was that swift tongue he inherited, "Tell Judith I said hi, tell her I resent the fact that she hadn't called me to tell me about the whole adoption business..." He nodded to each of those and watched as she counted on her fingers, "And tell her that I need some quality washing-up liquid by next week because I'm done scrubbing everything with that off-brand shit. Leaves fuckin' stains everywhere."

"Bye, mama!" He called from the door, and he heard the armchair squeak under her as she sat, volume of the television rising. Nick gave a soft, satisfied nod to himself and walked out. Moisture and the sound of dripping water followed him downstairs, and a single yank of the front door proved that the apocalypse was underway outside. It was practically coming down horizontally, and he had to keep himself steady on his paws lest the wind blow him over. It had rained through his coat, and one glance in the rear-view mirror proved that his shoulders lay absolutely drenched. But as Lower East faded in the rear-view mirror and he moved closer towards the shimmering glass pastures of Central, it seemed tertiary. Lunch in the city, films at home, wait for Judy, take a shower together and make love, slip into the bed, and fade away like that. The routine they had returned, and merely changed in face of the new circumstances that surrounded it. For the first time in nearly a week, Nicholas felt at ease as he pulled into the driveway of his absolute favourite diner. Given the way he spent the morning, more memories were just as welcome, and now they too broke the floodgates. Flickering neon mixed with polished steel and it all felt so familiar and welcoming to him. Brief breaks in the rain let the sunlight stream in. Steam rose from the streets. Bogo had failed. Their life was still their own.

* * *

"Someone's been at my CDs..." Nick exclaimed softly as he knelt beside the imposing stack and Judy froze for a second, the two plates they had eaten dinner off firmly in her paw but hanging suspended over the sink, "You wouldn't know anything about this, would you?" Oh carrots, she thought, he noticed. How? Judy had taken great care to put each of them away exactly how she found them, "Of course you wouldn't. You don't like classical music." A sigh of relief slipped her lips. She put the plates away proper, giving each of them a momentary rinse to dispose of the asparagus stains. The soft pop her back gave as she stood on her toes made her look around a little bit. The weight of the day sinking into her fur. It would dissipate as soon as she lay in bed. A miraculous sort of weightlessness, where all her woes drifted down into the mattress, leaving behind ghostly sensations, swiftly replaced by Nick's tender grasp. She truly needed it. Soon enough, however, she found a welcome break from that reminder within his lap, head looking up at him as he surfed the television channels.

"Bullshit, bullshit, news, bullshit, more news, soap opera, shitty sitcom, sports..." Each of those exclamations was followed by a click of the remote, and the changing lights around them as the screen flickered; words broke up, coming out as fragments, and Judy closed her eyes, feeling it all pass through her. A wealth of information streaming across the device opposite the sofa, and yet all of it felt so hollow and token. Her paw snaked its way up the hem of his shirt, and she gave his side a gentle stroke, to which he responded by looking down and planting a soft, light kiss directly atop her nose, "Silence works too." He added. The light disappeared fully, leaving his form draped in the comforting orange of the standing lamp.

"I missed this..." She whispered to him as her paw stood up on two fingers and rolled up along his ribs. Each parting in them rose and fell with his breath, bookends of his being, warm to the touch, and tensing against her finger-tips. And then she felt his own paw, rolling lovingly along her lower back, and moving up, to coast upwards, giving her cheek a caress, into which she sank effortlessly.

"As did I, darling." His lips found hers briefly, and they held one another, his form leaning over hers and she sat up slightly, to pull him even closer, paw now yanking at the inside of his shirt; as she pulled away, she gave his nose a prod with her own and laughed softly, "I went and visited my old neighbourhood today." He echoed her chuckle, "No matter what you say, the animals I spoke to are hardly 'petty riff-raff'." Judy's lips drew themselves into a sarcastic line for a moment, "Just an old barkeep and mother."

"You visited Clementine?" Judy asked cheerfully and he nodded, stretching his neck out to allow her paw passage along the underside of his muzzle; this was her favourite part of him to caress, as there was just something about the sensation of newly-grown beard bristles, jarringly sharp, combined with the soft ocean of orange that surrounded them, "Did you apologize for the five weeks?"

"In...a way." If he were capable of it, he would probably be purring right now, she thought and smiled to herself, "She doesn't mind."

"Not now she doesn't." Judy laughed to herself, "Wait until she figures out how she can use this against us."

"I assure you, mother already has. Now she just needs an application for it." His gaze lowered and met hers, raising a pair of eyebrows, "Oh, and she's very happy that she's going to be a grandmother soon." He leaned his head back and groaned under his voice, "Oh, that's the good stuff right there." Reducing Nick to a puddle was as simple as finding the right places to scratch at. Between the folds of his jaw lay a pressure point that perpetually produced the same sorts of results, and now she had a perfect drop on it.

"I bet. How long do you think it'll take for her to start spoiling our kids?" Nick shrugged a bit.

"Depends." Judy raised an eyebrow, "If you mean spoiling them whilst simultaneously complaining about how we're the ones that are doing the spoiling, at the very least a week. Just spoiling them will probably take..." He paused, and Judy chimed in.

"Thirty seconds?"

"Precisely thirty seconds." They laughed amongst themselves and he rolled onto his back, letting her lie atop him, giving her the odd kiss between simply looking at her. In the silence, she could hear the exact murmurs of his stomach, and the breeze of his breaths as they coasted across her nose. She pushed her nose into the arch of his shoulder and nuzzled into his neck softly, "Love you."

"Love you too, carrots." Another brief pause followed, their minds in other places, and Judy looked ahead, already imagining the Clementine telling her stories to their children, between telling them to get the hell out of 'her kitchen'. He took a deep breath and shifted a little bit, her eyes now closed, "How was your day?"

"Mmm...strange." A momentary motion usurped the comfort she found and her husband slipped out from underneath her, standing and pacing over to the rack of CDs he was inspecting earlier.

"Strange how?" The rattle of plastic filled the air briefly and he slid open a CD case, popping out the disc within and carrying it to the player with his finger through the hole. The device buzzed momentarily. The disc vanished within it. Music filled the air in a matter of moments. Soft, distant drumming, mixing effortlessly with the plucks and hums of a standing bass; this she knew. It was her favourite jazz record, one of the few she enjoyed and had listened through all the way multiple times. Bill Evans, Interplay. Lying on her back and looking at the ceiling as her husband wandered around their apartment, she closed her eyes and thought back to the very first time she had heard those opening bars. Hours into a seaward drive, Nick's digits followed the tunes aimlessly, drumming against the steering wheel, beating a soft melody into her sensitive ears, and her on the passenger seat, watching the night roll by. Something about the night on the long, empty road drew her into the details she failed to consider during the day; from shimmering flickers on the horizon, of strewn-about houses in villages, to the rising form of a bell tower amidst the sprawling woods, darker now, it all bore an air of mystery. Paths not yet taken, roads yet to be seen, street-names foreign to her but second nature to someone else, "Darling?" Nick's voice served to whisk away the mist that took her, and she opened her eyes, blinking slowly and giving a yawn, "What do you mean by 'strange'?"

"We detained a prowler today. Looked nothing like your usual criminal. Well-dressed and utterly unprepared for running." His paw ran up and down the top of her head, and with each pass he'd curl up a strand of her fur and let it roll itself loose; she poked her head up as he paused for a moment, and he gave a nod, resuming wordlessly, "And then things got even stranger. Ritter turned the radio off when I tried to call it in and said he had done so already, but I don't think he did." Judy sat up slightly and lay either of her haunches astride Nick's thighs, looking up at him as she tried to conjure the images up again, "The suspect's name is Adam Baerton. He tried to tell me something as we drove back, so I dropped my transceiver." Nick tilted his head to one side and raised an eyebrow, "I didn't have line of sight to him in the back seat, so I had to adjust myself, and the only way to do that without getting Ritter's attention was...well, to drop my transceiver." She explained quickly and her husband nodded again; his cheek found hers, giving a tender nuzzle, to which she responded on immediate and equal terms, sighing to herself; in the dark of her mind, eyes firmly shut again, she reconstructed the motions of Baerton's mouth, "He told me to 'trust no-one'." This made Nick's form jerk back a bit but he held his muzzle beside hers, humming in affirmation.

"Sounds like Ritter is dirty." He offered, and Judy gave an almost weak nod. There was a sacred bond between partners in the force. Through thick and thin, a partner stuck by his other half on duty. It was an unspoken code. But today stung slightly. Ritter was a temporary assignment, yes, and she would soon meet her more permanent professional counterpart, but the code was clear; no matter the exact terms of the partnership, the bond was to remain unbroken. He had marred that code, "Frankly, I'm not surprised." A brief laugh drifted into her ear, and he kissed along its arch, to which her whole form gave a soft shiver; pins and needles coursing through her, "When you said you'd look for anything off, I didn't think you'd find it this quickly. Then again..." Nick's eyes hovered in front of hers now; something about the shine in his eye when the light struck them just the right way was utterly disarming, "You are the best officer on the force. Anything is possible."

"Shut up." She gave a loving half-laugh and kissed his lips again, "Oh, and there was something else. The package." Five grey fingers slipped out from beneath the buttons of his shirt and gave a slight push, nudging him back into the sofa.

"Package?" He questioned and she gave a nod.

"Baerton dropped something in the trash. Insisted that someone else made him do it." With each word, Nick's eyes grew wider, and his nods became increasingly quick, but his caresses along the outside of her leg did not slow or falter, "Said we should get a bomb squad to that bin as quickly as possible." Why did she wait so long to tell him this? The way his lips began to sink made her recall why; worry. But she had everything under control. Should she tell him the rest? Inwardly, she nodded. Nothing concealed, "And then he...said that if we didn't..." Two timid purple eyes sank downwards, across his chest, to his lap, capturing his stomach and his elbows, nestled on either side of his body; she glanced up, almost pleadingly, "Innocent people will die."

"Judy, did you tell anyone about this?" The transition was complete. His features turned from soft and loving to riddled with concern in a span of minutes, and his lips had drawn themselves into a line; Judy could see his mind racing at a thousand miles per hour as he attempted to quantify what she had just told him, "This is extremely serious." It was a rhetorical question. She shook her head, and he nodded. Helplessness. The music became almost annoying, serving no purpose but to give false softness to the weight of the report. Who would she tell, anyway? "Did Ritter see that Baerton dropped something?"

"He did, and said that he checked it out after I took off. His excuse, if I recall correctly, was that it consisted of 'old newspapers'." Nick nodded once more, "Hell, it was Ritter that spotted it first. Hadn't he pointed it out, we would've missed the drop entirely." This prompted Nick to bite his lower lip in thought.

"That makes no sense." The fox shook his head, but just barely, and looked into her, having focused on an imagined spot on her chest up until now, "Why would a rotten officer point out an illegal drop, send you out to arrest the suspect, and then lie about the whole thing?" He wagged his right index finger a bit, like he usually did when he was busy making a point, "He had to have known about it. There's no way it wouldn't be released as a warning to each corrupt officer in the immediate vicinity. Do not investigate this."

"Gods, Nick, that..." It was her turn to look aside and put her chin into her paw; cradled between her index finger and thumb, the two digits took to flattening the thin fur atop the end of her muzzle. Everything lined up perfectly. How hadn't she seen this? Ritter made a slew of critical errors, if he was indeed rotten, which was the interminable truth at this point. He showed her everything. And all it took was an hour. This is how and where the drops are made, these are our couriers, and this is how we avoid being officially liable for it. Trash can, pursuit, taser, radio, "That makes sense." With wide eyes, she looked at her husband again, and found his slack-jawed expression matching her own, "That makes too much sense, actually." They spent a few moments simply staring at one another in disbelief.

"No fucking way that this is a coincidence." The way he spoke was extremely soft, barely above a whisper, but laden with tension, and as each word left his mouth, she mirrored it, mouthing after him, "What on Earth would make him do this?"

"I don't know, but we need to write this down at once." Out came the whiteboard again, and the critical points: trash can, pursuit, taser, radio. The location was possibly critical as well, which is something that Nick suggested additionally. Pick a street with an adjacent alley. Most of the time, the suspect will corner himself. In time, they began moving to the crooning notes of Bill Evans' piano playing, with her passing him papers while he jotted each and every firm sentence down, giving it form and shape, to be added to the report. This was case appendix one. There would be more, she thought to herself and nodded. The felt-tip marker drifted effortlessly from one conclusion to another. The more they wrote, the quicker her conclusions became. Each and every single moment of that endless morning turned to a key figure in something. Ritter's motions and actions all betrayed him and the entirety of the ZPD for what they truly were. Even the elevator ride and his comments about Baerton's mental health were all tells. How do you put away the couriers once they've done their job? Mental health charges, sectioned for life under counts of severe mental illness, never to be taken seriously again. Upon writing that last line, she took a step back and watched it, reading it again and again. There it was. Out in the clear once and for all. Nothing concealed from her any more. Bogo was ousted, as was every other officer on his payroll, and each and every single government employee that helped them do this. Even Nick had noticed her transfixed state through the rapid pulls and sharp turns of pencil on paper.

"This is..." Judy shook her head a bit, jaw slackening once again, "This is damning, Nick."

"I don't know what to say." His paws snaked their way around her waist and he pulled her into a sort of half-hug, back-to-front, but not a loving one; fear coursed through her. He must've felt it. The heat of the sweat on her back, running cold now, as cold as ice, and the shake in her normally steady paws. The most damning evidence they had yet. When Bogo said what he would do to her if she pursued the case rang truer than ever. This is why. There was only one officer in the entire ZPD with enough sense of justice and just little enough sanity to pursue this thread of reasoning, and she did not even have to put herself in harm's way to get this. Ritter gave it all away. Judy's breaths quickened. The cavity of her nose constricted and began aching again, steadily pulsating from within, and what little ability to breathe she had regained in the last few days were suddenly stolen from her. And the damnable bruise, for which she felt along the edges of her face. It was impossible not to locate it at once. Flames coursed through it. Searing bands of rubber that tensed and stretched with each and every additional thought she gave to the case. Nothing short of a beating would've sufficed, she reasoned, and Bogo knew as much. Nothing short of nearly killing her on the spot would've deterred her, and it still hadn't. In that moment, Judy felt like the public enemy number one. The most dangerous creature to the status quo of the entirety of Pancontinentia was not a strong, vicious tiger, or a murderous bear, or any amount of impossibly enigmatic terrorist groups the government claimed were on the prowl for the blood of innocents; no, the one that now held the strings to bring it all down atop their heads stood in a North Burrows apartment, in the arms of her husband, surrounded by a plethora of evidence suggesting a harmonious marital life, far from the likes of trouble. But it was deceptive at a glance, and it hid the truth so effortlessly, so simply and shallowly, and yet in such an unreachable way. Justice and honour personified. She imagined herself in that mirror again, damaged by the viciousness of the system, willing to do anything to remain in power. But Bogo had made a mistake, and that mistake was not killing her in time. Now, nothing would stand in her way. In their way, she nodded, feeling Nick's breaths mirror her own. Not alone, but together. Transfixed by their own creation. Nothing would be the same again. Innocents will die. That package was a bomb.

"Holy fuck..." Was all he managed to say after a few moments of observing the same she did, "If you ever deny the fact that you're the best officer on that whole rotten fucking force, I swear to the Gods themselves that I will make you read that entire report out loud." Naturally, he joked, and she even managed a laugh, but it wasn't one of humour. Rather, it lay rooted in the unsteadiness of her feet, and she stumbled slightly, but Nick caught her on time, lowering her onto the sofa and hovering his face some distance away from her, "I know this is shocking, but don't pass out on me." The quip was a matter of acknowledgement, and she gave a nod in response; nothing left to say about anything. It broke in her paws, like glass, which she now held before herself. The vessels beneath her skin appeared to pound and rave visibly, and her heart raced so quickly that it had no time to catch up with her breaths. Judy rose to her feet, stepping past her husband, and walking to the window. Innocents will die. Revelations spun so quickly that grasping them firmly remained entirely up to chance, "Sweetheart?"

"Nick..." The bunny turned to him, eyes slack beside herself. Images of past arrests, of moments of glory mixed with the treads she had connected now. For two years, she served these people. This very status quo. For two years, she had not questioned it for a moment. Now its gears lay exposed. Judy recounted the words she had once read in some old and dusty tome; stare in the abyss for long enough, and the abyss shall stare back. Our brightest moments come in the wake of our darkest, and may sometimes feel just the same, "This is all...circumstantial. In a way, we've got nothing."

"No." He shook his head and raised the paper he had written on, and presented the stains of his paw-writing to her; at the edge of his paw the bristles had turned grey with graphite, "We have a starting point. We effectively have a testimony from someone that had given it unknowingly."

"But what if..." Judy struggled with all this, paws dancing before her form inefficiently, attempting to grasp something, anything at all. No, you are justice. Bogo did what he came to do. Never again. Judy Hopps, ZPD's first bunny officer, could not stop death. The causes of all her aches had their brains rendered clean from their skulls almost a week and a half ago, but they did not rest in peace. Not yet. Agency. The ability to enact change within an isolated system. Alter the flow of energy and let it take on new forms, until change occurs, "You're right, Nick. You're absolutely right. Gods, I'm..." She lowered her forehead into her paw, "So silly sometimes." Between her lowered gaze and the pounding of her thoughts, she had not heard him moving closer, but she felt him hug her again. The softness of his shirt. The scent of his being, the warmth, the comfort. Agency. Enact change, Judy. After all, he had always believed that she was capable of more than she thought.

"Would a silly bunny be able to uncover all this?" He asked, and she shook her head adamantly, clutching him close to herself, to hear more of those long, relaxed breaths, "I would go for an 'I told you so' here, but I don't think its appropriate."

"It absolutely isn't." They kissed once more. He eagerly submitted to each and every tug and pull of her loving lips and returned just as much as he took, and perhaps more, even as she danced him towards the bathroom, still embraced, the melody of a fading piano.

They stripped one another slowly, beneath more of those very same kisses, until all that existed in her mind and memory was his scent and being. Distance yourself from it all. Beyond that doorstep lay a case broken wide open, on an unwiped whiteboard, in the same space as a gun used for desperate moments, but none of it bore any significance beyond the gentleness of his touch as it moved along her body, taking a moment to cup her breast, to feel the pounding rush of her aroused, spirited heart. The way his paw-pad danced around her nipple made her gasp slightly. Her own paws were roaming across him, not stopping for a moment, not even as he leaned back and let the water fill the bathtub. He grew into her paw and she stroked him; it had been so long since she last experienced the scent of his arousal. For twenty minutes, they made love beneath the water, pulled close to one another the entire time, his muzzle resting beside hers, listening to their mixing breaths, minute vocalizations of an absolute sort of abandon, where everything turned to nothing and she could become lost in him, in the same way he became lost in her. Time without time. Seconds devoid of their natural progression stretched beyond some point far ahead. Nothing mattered. They hadn't even bothered to close the door. Nothing beyond the splash of water could be heard. Nick orgasmed first, flooding her insides with the warm sort of fullness she had become accustomed to, and just before he had muttered those half-formed words into her ear, she lifted herself up along his malehood slightly, and allowed him to knot. Extend it. To keep him close to herself even as the water around them grew colder and colder. Their usual routine after he knotted was conversation, an exchange of adoring phrases or reminders of times gone by, as it was a special and unique thing they indulged in only every so often. But that night was different. Only more kisses and nuzzles, breaths and pecks and then, vacuum. She floated beside him, pulled close to him, eyes blinking slowly, opening just a little less each time. Half an hour had passed, and he slipped out of her soundlessly, releasing into the water the aftermath of their lovemaking. The emptied the bath tub and retreated to bed, nude as they had been. The ceremony of switching off the lights was a quick one, Nick's wet fur only chasing him faster to the warm retreat of shared sleep, and they had put a towel down, to soak up any excess water. Silence. His breaths. They held paws underneath the sheets. It reminded her of a simpler time. School-aged children. But there was so much more now. Permanence, memory, wholesomeness, and unity. All things worth fighting for. A bunny and a fox. Something about the way his wet fur slid around her fingers made her all the more tired. Calmed her. Sleep came easily, preceded by three words, whispered to one another, and two kisses to act as codas. Permanence, objective permanence from which nothing could part her.

But the night had just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may be slightly surprised by the addition of Nick's mother and her role in the family, but where I come from, this is perfectly common. In the Balkan states, the entire living family participates in daily life (as Judy points out), and as a result, I was raised by my grandmother as much as I was raised by my mother and father. Clementine is, by virtue of her behaviour and comments, a spitting image of said grandmother. Why did I include this? Well, I've wanted to make Zootopia a pastiche of cultures and cultural norms whilst simultaenously staying within the bounds of the rational and reasonable, and also add a new character so that Nick and Judy's world no longer feels that...constricted. Further examples include Hollyoaks, the soap opera addressed in this chapter. Its British, as is the practice of making tea in electric kettles and serving it to your guests without even asking whether they'd like some, because c'mon, they're just as British as you. Clementine's role in the story is fundamentally Balkan in nature. Education and healthcare are fully free in Pancontinentia, which Americans would argue is a Canadian thing, and Europeans would argue is a trait that is common throughout the continent, to greater or lesser extents in each. And in the coming chapter there'll be more examples of this "cultural melting pot" of sorts. Truly a cosmopolitan place. Well, at least on the surface. But conspiracy theories are for later!


	9. Burn After Writing

There are three kinds of animals that anticipate calls in the middle of the night: politicians, surgeons, and insomniacs. The first hoped to never hear it, it the second heard it on a regular basis, and the third eagerly awaited it, just to feel useful and mobile for a change. Neither Judy nor Nick fit into any of these categories, and when the phone began its buzz in the kitchen, all it recieved in response was a shift in the sheets and a groan from the bunny. Her ears, perpetually tuned into the background radiation of life, had registered the faint sound, but could not place it coherently, nor take it as a sign to awaken. Instead she merely pulled closer to her husband and nudged him further off the bed. She was a notorious 'blanket bandit' as he called her, and she would toss and turn in the night. Thankfully, her small frame made it easy for Nick to ignore such nocturnal activity, and whenever she began, snore lightening and paws moving from their usual hiding spots in his fur, he would merely encroach upon her own territory; it was a reflex, involuntary, and often performed in a half-asleep state. Unable to move him, the sleeping bunny would instead find comfort in the new shape his form took on. Gone was the nook beside his muzzle in which she hid, but his arm had now scaled over her pillow, and she would pull it closer, to rest her head on it and await morning like that. The sole time when it became a problem is when they shared a cramped space, such as the guest room at Judy's childhood home, or the back seat of their car during that one time it broke down in the middle of nowhere. Now he rolled onto his front and pushed her to the wall, and she obligingly mirrored his motions, adjusting appropriately. Two separate streams of snores continued undeterred. The phone had stopped its buzzing and glowed in the darkness, showing one missed call. And then it rang again. Judy had made it a habit to put it on sleep mode as she shared a number of chat groups on Furbook with her parents and siblings, and having twenty-five bunnies with a family history of insomnia messaging one another in the dead of night caused both of them a great deal of stress. Now it was a habitual slide of her fingers, to the mute button, so that they may entertain one another in her absence. Each buzz of it brought it closer to the edge of the living room coffee table, and passing close by a small stack of DVDs, it rattled them too, and at this, hear ear shifted more violently. Second missed call. Content with it finally having ended, Judy's ears folded themselves back down again, stripped of what little strength had awoken them, and now lay draped clumsily across her face.

Third call. One buzz, and then a second one, and finally, it fell to the floor, hard against the wood. Judy's eyes drifted open and she sat up on her elbows. The room was completely dark. Nothing concrete to be found anywhere. To her right, Nick, murmuring something in response to her waking. She looked down. Almost three quarters of the blanket lay in her paws, promptly exposing Nick's bottom to the air, which sent his tail twitching impatiently. A mute and apologetic nod later, and she tucked him in properly. Sure enough, the bushy black and orange appendage ceased its motions. Focus, Judy. What was that noise? It was something, and she was sure of it. Someone was in the house. Fear gripped the bunny and her legs moved closer to her, partially for the sake of comfort, and partially as a preparation to pounce should an uninvited visitor make himself known in the door-frame of their bedroom. Beyond it lay darkness. A plain wall, supporting a picture frame. For some reason that was utterly beyond her at that moment, Judy attempted to recall what the aforementioned frame held. Some sort of print. Focus. Just as she was about to write it off as the building settling into its foundations, it began again, terse and prompt, boring a hole in her mind. Her left ear rose first, standing straight up and turning towards the kitchen. Usurped strands of fur lined it, having become dislodged in her sleep, and shivered with a passing breeze. The noise came in threes, buzzing, not entirely unlike a swarm of angry wasps, but distant, and muted. It echoed too. The floor? Judy leaned up and looked beyond her husband's shoulder, at the plain parquet concealed expertly beneath a small, rectangular rug. What on Earth would be making that noise in relation to the floor? She shuffled forward, across the towel they had put down, and slipped off the edge. The wood was cold against her feet. Shivers shot through her but she steadied herself and stood. Her head spun still, from the haze of dreams rudely interrupted. A weapon. What if it was another animal? Find a weapon. She took two steps towards the window and took hold of a metal candelabrum; how it got there she could not recall. Probably Nick. He enjoyed it if a room looked "busy". More cold wood against her toes, warming up slightly as she stepped on it, but she would never remain for long enough to turn that heat into something productive. No blanket, no clothes, not even a bathrobe, and the entire house was subject to the whims of night-time breezes. She pressed her thighs closer together and drew her forearms towards her chest; of course those two would instantly protest to the change in temperature. The bunny cast one glance behind herself. Outside, the trees swayed violently, and rain pock-marked the window-panes. A storm made landfall, probably from behind the hills, spilling out above Zootopia just now, sending the lights dancing. Shadows played along the far wall, monstrous in shape and size, barren branches becoming deathly limbs. Her grip on the candelabrum base tightened. Bogo, here to finish the job? He'd be louder. He would make his presence known. Subtlety was not his thing, and he would most likely not be alone. No, Judy reasoned, it was something else. Burglars? The building looked dilapidated. They'd have a better chance of stealing something valuable if they went after orphans.

Just as she prepared herself to step out of the bedroom and into the hall, something stirred sharply behind herself and she spun, clutching the candelabrum tightly in either paw, and presenting it like a sword.

"The fuck are you doing, woman?" Naturally, it was Nick, and any element of surprise they had was at once ruined by his sharp, groggy whispering. She hushed him quickly and motioned behind herself with her thumb, but he decided to continue regardless "No-one there. Just the living room. Chill." There's a word she hadn't heard out of him in a very long time indeed; of course, he was still asleep.

"Will you pipe down? Someone's in the house." Judy gave a nod and Nick returned it; he probably hadn't heard a word.

"Fuck that, I'm gonna go beat their head in." Utterly unphased by her finely-honed tactics and fully worked-out approach for a sneak attack, he stood to his feet, yawned, scratched his nethers, and took a few determined steps forward, taking the candelabrum out of her paws with ease and pushing past her. Judy followed close behind but had trouble paying attention from the sudden rolling motions her eyes had taken to performing. He stopped sharply and she bumped into him, which earned her a glance from above, succeeded shortly by him looking to the living room again and slapping the candelabrum against his free paw like a bat, "Come out, dickhead. We know you're in here." He motioned behind himself, "I married a Doppler unit for a fuckin' reason. She'd hear a mouse farting in the middle of a scherzo. Can't hide from us." Silence. Howling wind at the windows, and the smack of his lips as he licked them. He turned to her, "See? Not a peep. Let's go back to bed." But the bunny didn't move.

"Look, my phone..." She extended a paw and pointed towards the floor beside the coffee table, where the device lay, embedded in the edges of another small rug, glowing with urgency, "Must've been knocked off the table." Something fell into her extended paw; the candelabrum.

"Oh no. Good luck fighting off the spirits from beyond that feed on 4G." With that, he walked around her and made for the bedroom, "If you'll be needing me, I was in the middle of devouring a plate of pancakes the size of the Zootopia Convention Centre." Judy scoffed, but couldn't help the grin which appeared on her lips; typical, "Fuckin' murder-phones, waking innocent people's mad wives up."

"I heard that!" She called after him, and he laughed groggily.

"Good! Let me know how the exorcism goes!" Shifting of sheets and a tired creak from the mattress. Judy looked ahead again. Someone called her. That was the source of the buzzing. She approached it and knelt beside it, turning the screen towards herself. Three missed calls. Two from a private number, but a third from a contact she had saved; Ritter. Judy tilted her head to one side slightly. Why would he call her at this hour? Confused and with the lightness of imminent still in full possession of her mind, she sat down on the couch and unlocked the screen. Ritter, for sure. A photograph of him grinning madly, which she took as his contact profile on their first day together, shone brightly. One press of that name and the photographs blew up on the screen. It beeped once, but only once, followed immediately by the sound of it being picked up.

"Hello?" She called softly, but no response came, "Anyone there?" More silence lined with interruptions in the form of hisses and pops. Judith felt unease grip at her, and in the dark of the living room, all she could hear were the tinny hums of the connection. Breathing. Someone was on the other end, "Ritter, you're scaring me."

"Good." The response was simple and condensed into a singular breath. Judy nearly dropped the phone in shock, but her shaking paw held onto it. Apprehension turned to terror. He could be anywhere. He could be watching her right now. After all, she told him where she lived, roughly. Not that searching for the exact address would be difficult. Asking Clawhauser would most likely result in the correct answer.

"I'm calling the police." It was an utterly idiotic response, but the best she could muster at the present moment. In a way, she promised to call herself. But it was different. More silence. More empty, electric humming, across a variable distance; either fifty miles, or two feet, or anywhere in between. They were civillians now, off duty, and he had just threatened her. At least Judy thought he did. It was close to a threat. Probable cause, harassment for sure.

"You've got the police." Ritter's voice was utterly unusual. He laughed, but it wasn't a friendly titter; rather, a terrifying gwuaff. I know more than you do, it said. In each long pause lay buried tension, and she could hear the rain as it whipped the windows, battering them madly, rattling the frames, carried aloft on the wings of the storm. Jarring reminders of the fact that she wasn't dreaming this. How she wished she was. Only minutes had passed since Judy awoke, but already she wanted to creep back into the blankets, and pretend that none of this was happening to her, that it was happening to someone else, personified in her wakeful self, in a world where the warm fold of Nick's embrace lay distant and meek. His light-hearted jest now echoed in her mind; nothing could last, "We need to talk."

"We are talking." The bunny dreaded what he would ask of her next; she knew before the words had even left his mouth.

"In person. We have to meet." She crept up along the couch and lay in the corner of it, wedged between the pillows and the armrest, and pulled her legs towards herself, but only to ease the motions of laying a blanket across her nude form; the sudden lack of immediate physical tension rendered the cold all the more potent.

"Why?" So he could get his paws on her and finish what Bogo began, of course. Two weeks of not being able to breathe through her nose planted a vivid reminder within her that was never far, and her shallowing breaths found her in the dark alcove of her living room, "I know you're rotten already. Not much to discuss beyond that."

"You don't know the half of it, Hopps." Mocking her again, but weakly, faintly. Nick was right. The pieces didn't fit, but the motive was lacking. In a fell swoop, he undid years of preparation, refinement, and subterfuge. Shown her everything, laid bare. The bones of justice, picked clean by ever-hungering buzzards, "I gave you a taste of what lies behind all of this. Tell me that you don't want more, and I'll know you're lying." Ritter's voice grew more shallow and laboured, as if he had been running, and in each syllable lay only the faintest hint of burden, a weight borne for too long leaving behind lasting marks, "I've known officers like you my whole life. Driven, motivated, willing to save the world. How can you save it if you don't understand what you're saving it from?" For almost a minute, Judy pondered how to respond. Addressing it directly would mean admitting that he was right, and doing so would be giving him an upper hand in a matter where he absolutely did not deserve it. Her chest rose and fell slowly. Deep breaths. Calm yourself. Her heart threatened to pound itself asunder within her ribcage.

"Why did you show me?" The answer hung atop the crease of her own tongue, but inferring it would mean adding fuel to the fire and utterly dismembering the balance she had established thus far; he was afraid of something, and palpably so. We all went into this for the same reasons. The flames of justice don't simply die one day.

"Parking garage at fourteenth and Lewisham, in an hour." Ritter parted his words with another lengthy pause. He had her now. No threat of her hanging up the phone. Fear was a powerful aphrodisiac, "I'd ask you to promise me you'll show up, but somehow I feel as if I don't have to." And then the speaker clicked and took Ritter's voice with itself. Long, ebbing beeps. A connection severed. From how far away? There was a rattle, stemming from a hook. Most likely a land-line, perhaps a phone booth. This could mean any number of things. At least three lay within walking distance of her house.

She stood up and threw one end of the blanket across her shoulder like a toga and kept the rest of it tightly closed, pressed to her chest by her forearms. This is how she would wander around Nick's apartment during a more innocent time, bashful and protective of her nude form, except in their most intimate moments; modesty was a victim of married life, but a worthy one. These images came to her as a buffer, to hold back the fear, lulling her like seaward waves, a vessel with a broken sail trapped atop the sea's tumultuous surface, tossed to and fro, each wave against the bow of her consciousness bringing her closer to the tipping point. The scraping of the branches against the glass turned to whispers, and she would look about herself twice before stepping into the bedroom. How close? Judy watched the space from the door-step. Waking him again made her feel bad, but it had barely been five minutes. He couldn't have been that deep in his dreams, but none the less, Judy spared a moment observing the way in which his limbs moved, grasping at the edges of sleep. His forearm spasmed impalpably. Muscles fading into their cycle of dormancy. Stand by until needed again. And a wholesome, living mind, coursing through a world constructed lying beneath it all. Her eyes would drift to him in the middle of the night, most recently during a bout of her nightmares where he became the sole reminder of her stability; a rocking boat barely bigger than a nutshell, but with a strongly-armoured port to dock in, and await the passing of the hurricane. No, she decided with a mute, curt nod, this was her war now. Ritter was her partner. If it was her destiny to be his judge, jury, and executioner, she would make it so that the last face he saw was hers and hers alone, just to remind him of what exactly he had desecrated. Not just the badge. But the code, too. The bunny made for the closet and took out a pair of simple jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, black in colour. In case she needed to use darkness to her advantage. The holster assembly fit perfectly into the belt-loops, and rattled slightly as she put it on. Carrying a lethal weapon was not something she agreed with, and only did so in moments of extreme necessity, but there was no telling which methods of revenge Ritter was inclined towards. Defence was a must, but the gun still felt heavy against her hip. It clicked as she walked. Thankfully not loud enough to wake Nick.

Fourteenth and Lewisham lay just two blocks away from the harbour district, with its endless supply of cranes and massive, leering cargo ships, swaying sternly beside the massive of the ZooCon Coliseum. Judy had looked the precise directions up on the internet, and found that Ritter was hiding inside a parking garage. Empty at this time of night. It would give her lots of space to run, but his was a profoundly predatory species. Honed eyes, precise ears, and legs that would catch her no matter how many times she would duck and weave her way through them. Hiding became her only solution. Find cover, and shoot from there; shoot to kill. If she succeeded in doing more than just wounding him, which she considered to be the worst possible outcome, but perhaps an entirely unavoidable one, Bogo would no doubt try and pin the murder on her. The slip of her jacket as she pulled it over her shoulders served as a cold reminder. It fit snugly. Just like Bogo's hands fit around her entire form. Mentally unstable, she recalled. Beneath the hem of her sleeve, she saw that damnable scar, shining almost. Why did she choose to make that incision again? Her motives lay in a mire of unknowns. That dark place she dared not venture to. Treading ground there meant unleashing demons which she did not need right now. Focus on one thing, and one thing alone; or innocents will die. This was her first true test. Subterfuge in a patrol car was nothing now that he had her alone. Perhaps not alone at all. What if more rotten officers awaited her? What if her end, which she had tried so hard to usher in before, now lay in the midst of a crossfire? There would be nowhere to run, and no way to fight it all off. They would open fire and fell her in a matter of seconds. And then came the cold arms. Without Nick. Why didn't you wake him? So that he doesn't see you broken, dying in a puddle of your own blood, and inevitably facing the same fate himself. Given the most likely outcome, the memory of her will sleep complete in his mind, as he had last seen her, atop him, cheeks flushed, breath heavy with the sounds of love-making, their beings fully lost within one another. No need to see the cold gaze she experienced in those crime scene photographs. The frozen muscles of a face that would never move again, never to whisper sweet nothings into his ear, and never to be seen as a permanent fixture in some distant future. Nick's deep, penetrating snore rattled her. This may very well be the last time she will see him.

Judy tore a post-it note from the fridge stack, where they kept the blanks, for purposes of grocery lists and such. She clicked the pen open and began writing. It was a brief note, not mentioning the possibility of her death, but keeping it fully on the table, not promising anything in the other direction either. Merely the address, and a warning stating that, if she did not return until seven in the morning, he should come look for her. And if possible alert the relevant authorities. Her paw hung over that last part. With her out of the picture, there was no threat to Nick any more. Nothing to come and hound him with her six feet under the Earth. Judy closed her eyes and sighed. On the very bottom she wrote 'I love you so very much, and please, don't worry about me'. It was the closest he would have to a farewell from her. No time. Half an hour left until the meeting, and with the conditions outside, it may take her that long to get there. Judy placed it on the night-stand, atop the case with her badge, and leaned over Nick, kissing his cheek lightly. He smiled. Tears nearly welled up in her eyes momentarily. The possibly of not meeting her own children just came to her now. For a very long time, she thought of Nicholas as the perfect father; involved in the lives of his future offspring, and doing everything in his power to protect and prepare them for the world into which they would inevitably be thrust. It was a far-off moment, standing at the doorstep, watching their children leave, to begin lives of their own. Their duties would then be fulfilled. But now the nature of her duty was different. To care for all those that cannot speak for themselves; driven officers, as Ritter had said it himself. Was it a goal worthy of sacrifice? Naturally. It simply had to be. If it wasn't, what was? I need all of you, she recalled, not a half-life. Not supporting the terrifying status quo. What good were the images of non-existent children if that moment of separation lay bittersweet, steeped in resentment to her not having done the right thing at the right time? Bogo wanted her to fail. But she wouldn't. With a swift pull of her sleeve across her cheek, Judy wiped her tear and took a breath, rapid and shallow, but steady. She was composed.

The sheer strength of the gale outside required her to brace her feet against the ground. Thunder shone amongs the broken clouds overhead. Flashes, followed by a tremendous crack, drowned out by the rattle of wind in her ears. She sat in the car and listened in uneasily. The apartment building had one parking lot in front of itself, with several private garages lining the ground floor, owned by the residents living in some of the more fanciful structures which surrounded their humble dwelling. She saw them at times, driving out in their luxurious family sedans and high-riding SUVs, but she knew none of them by name; only by sight. A line of trees served to part the lot from the intersecting road, leading further South, towards the coastal burrows. Judy sat in the car for a moment and watched the wide, dark tree trunks sway in the wind, their branches rattling madly, some of them reaching upwards, to scrape at the extinguished windows of the apartment building. This was the source of the scraping. She thrust the key into the ignition and drove in the direction of town. No-one was out at this hour. She checked the clock on the dashboard; nearly four in the morning, on a Wednesday. Nick refused to set the clock to the correct time and instead kept it a few minutes fast. The reason for this was simple: Judy would often take her time getting ready, and this ensured that the deception of lateness was complete, which served to hurry her up, or alternatively, at least apologize for making them late. She broke a brief smile at the memory of him explaining it for the first time; it was a method his mother used on him and the kitchen clock, given his habutal tardiness. The warmth in her heart ebbed and died. This was not the time to live in the past. Endless intersections lay ahead of her. From her point of view she could see each stop-light about a minute before she got to it, and with no traffic to obstruct her line of sight, the vista of the city centre was marvellous. It would be illuminated through the night. The leering skyscrapers sat dark for the most part, save for shimmers of light speckled across their fronts, and the big, massive searchlights atop each of them, invisible in the clouds. They hung low, and gave the business district an almost saintly appearance, of pillars supporting a stranger, more distant heaven. In each of these towers sat banks, and stock exchanges, bustling nervous centres at the core of a living, breathing city. The desolation of the streets appeared almost unearthly to Judy when combined with the sight before her. Zootopia never slept, they would say, but now it did; perhaps even the very citizens had sensed the danger and retreated indoors, all twenty-five million of them. She laughed to herself thinly. Like in those old Western pictures, where frontier towns would empty as soon as a pair of duelling gunmen stepped out into the main thoroughfare. The image would be complete, she thought, if Ritter had parked his car at the end of the four-lane interstate and was waiting for her, expecting a spirited game of chicken, of predator and prey, where everything hung in the balance regardless of the roles that mother nature had assigned them.

Despite the darkness of the surrounding windows, the above-ground parking garage shed rays of yellow-green neon from the windowless partitions on each floor. Barren, unpainted concrete turned a darker shade of grey with the water streaming down its sides. Oddly utilitarian from an aesthetic viewpoint, and utterly out of place given its profoundly decorated surroundings, it did not help ease the tension Judy felt as she drove into it, and up a long, winding ramp. Hold the wheel hard to the right and keep your foot on the accelerator. She almost felt proud. The bunny was never a particularly good driver; merely average, and hopelessly outclassed by her husband. So the fact that she hadn't scuffed the bodywork in that moment, mind torn between fear and exhaustion, was cause for a soft nod of celebration. Ritter hadn't specified exactly where he would be hiding, but something drew her to the last floor of the garage. It was an inexplicable urge to be closer to the sky in that moment. An apex of something intangible. This is where he would be, and no doubt about it. There was also a tactical angle to it. There were more floors for her to clear if she wanted to escape, and pursuing her down the helical approach would be easier the longer it was. She pulled into the open concrete area. Most parking structures had an uncovered, final floor, but a series of arbitrary building codes had left the roof of this one unused. The neon lights stung Judy's eyes. Ten feet of blank space separated each neon tube, and the arcs of light spilling from them left cracks of darkness behind, which manifested themselves as long, drawn-out shadows, passing across Judy's face like a camera shutter. A few cars sat in the parking spaces. Most were luxurious in nature, which was a testament to the expensive nature of the waterfront district. But there was one that stood out. Black and white, with counter-rotating emergency lights, extinguished in the far corner; its official nature was one thing, but the darkness inside of it effectively rendered it inseparable from all the other ones. An uninitiated soul may find it a commonplace sight. But it protruded, unwanted and desolate. Judy stopped the car. It eased to a halt and she sat up. The cherry of a lit cigarette hovered inside the police vehicle; Ritter. She pondered parking the car and giving the scene a sense of uniformity. A poor tactical choice, though. Parking meant unparking as well, and in case of a pursuit, it would make escaping substantially more difficult. And it wasn't as if anyone was going to barge in on them and drive off. No danger of her cover being blown. So she turned the engine off and stepped outside. Cold air rushed through the structure and it howled akin to a tremendous beast in pain. Choking on a spear lodged in its throat by a whale-hunter. With her paws tucked under her shoulders and her weapon concealed beneath the fold of her jacket, she made for the corner; a thin sliver of light streaked down the front of the car; Unstoppable.

How would she approach this? Was it polite to knock on the door? Or was he going to open it for her? Questions raced through her mind at a thousand miles per hour. The closer she got to the door, the heavier the gun on her hip seemed to become; and her nose began closing up again. A burning sensation, gentle at first, made its presence known at the very tip of her muzzle. What if a bullet came streaming through the window? This would be the last thing she'd ever see. A black and white frame, speckled with drying rain, in a world of noise. And then nothing. No time for that now. She stood in front of the car and waited for a moment, still uncertain about what to do. Nothing came. No bullet, no roar of the engine, nothing immediately lethal or threatening. And then it opened. There he was. Clad in his blue uniform, with the badge affixed front and centre, and a pair of pens sticking out of the pocket on the other side, an equal distance from one another, as always. Directly above his forehead, the safety light glowed starkly, switching on whenever a door was opened just like in civilian cars, and revealed his features to her. Deep, almost bruised bags under either of his eyes, and an unshaven beard growing around his muzzle. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke. Chain-smoking wasn't a trait of his she knew about. Judy was rooted to the spot. Her legs would not move. In twenty-four hours, the grey-furred wolf before turned from ally to arch-enemy. Now she was within arm's reach of him. Once more that inane thought drilled its way into her mind; what if you were bigger? What if fate had decided to make you an elephant or a rhino or any other number of creatures far larger and stronger than he was?

"Get in." It was a simple command, and it tore her from her own thoughts entirely. This was a bad idea, she heard her own mind complain. There he is, the man who will do anything to maintain his own position. Put an innocent away into a mental institution just to serve his own racket. Why wouldn't he kill you right now? Coming here struck her as a show of weakness. He knows you trust him. Focus, Judith. Nothing has happened yet. If there ever was a bad time to doubt yourself through over-thinking, it was now. Yet, that scar beneath her sleeve would not cease its pulsating beat. She sank into the leather seat and shut the door. At once, the roar disappeared, and became drumming, a constrained whisper pulling its way through the car's bodywork. "I suppose..." He said slowly; his accent, North-Western in origin, dragged each word out slightly at the end, "You're wondering why you're here."

"Not really." She responded and drummed her fingers across the tops of her thighs uneasily. Judy couldn't bear to look at him right now. Instead, her eyes focused on a small, barely visible incision in the leather covering the glove compartment. How long has that been there?

"Oh?" His retort was simple, and they sank into a silence. Naturally, the question that followed didn't even need to be implied. Judy supposed he wanted to hear her say it. It certainly brought him satisfaction.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" Nothing. Not even a twitch in his face, or a shake of the head; neither confirm nor deny. Ritter was playing with her. The light above them extinguished itself slowly, fading from a brilliant, colourless glow, to a dimming yellow, and finally, to nothing at all.

"I've done enough killing for one life. I didn't even bring a weapon." She turned to him, but kept her features as neutral as she could, despite of how much that statement took her aback, "I'm here to set things to right."

"That was the second possibility." For a moment, Judy had ceased to mull her words, and instead said the first thing that came to mind. It had indeed been the second possibility for quite some time now. A rather unlikely one, but not one that she had ruled out entirely. Holding her breath for another moment, frozen at the edge of her throat, the bunny exhaled deeply, "Why go through the motions on the phone with me, then?"

"Programming. It's how we were taught to communicate with those outside our 'circle'. I managed to break free of it, though. I won't hurt you." He said and she felt a paw on her shoulder, giving it a gentle caress, friendly and caring. It stung her almost. Her shoulder moved away from him and followed the rest of her in curling up by the door. There was no comfort in his presence, and even less in his touch. A traitor to the badge. It shone in the half-light that streamed in from outside.

"Good. I'm...relieved." She looked at him again, one paw still on her thigh and the other in the centre of her chest, trying to calm the wicked beating beneath; when did her heart start pounding? "So...you're on Bogo's payroll." He looked away, and his paw vanished, retreating back to the steering wheel, and into the darkness "Or at least you used to be."

"Used to be is correct." His eyes were fixed on something outside the car, "I'll spare you the details of how long ago I agreed to it. It doesn't matter." He turned to her; his eyes were empty, "How much do you know?"

"I know that the package Baerton dropped into the trash can was a bomb, I know that he didn't do it of his own volition, and I know that Bogo doesn't want any of this brought out into the public or investigated. Same goes for the Nightclub incident." Judy's eyes drifted to the side as she listed everything off, and counted on her fingers, closing her eyes for a second to see if she had forgotten anything, "And I know that you make sure the couriers don't speak out against you by packing them away in institutions."

"Sometimes its institutions." He began, and turned his whole body to her, slowly taking a cigarette out of the box and putting it between his lips. He paused for another second and held the box towards her, and she helped herself. He lit both cigarettes, took a deep drag, and resumed, smoke billowing from his nose and lips with each word, "At others, its just regular prisons, or house arrest, or any other excuse we could've thought of." Judy may not have brought a pen and a pad of paper with her, but she hung onto each word, memorizing it, ensuring it stuck; the dictaphone in the inside pocket of her jacket churned away tirelessly. It was a secondary matter when she left the house, but it still felt like a good move. It had been running since she pulled into the garage, "But that's details. None of this will come up until it's too late. Until the buzzards are picking apart the shrapnel, trying to piece together what happened. How it could've happened. There's more pressing issues at paw." She swallowed a lump she didn't know existed; innocent people will die, "The bomb you saw dropped yesterday was just one of many. I removed it, and threw it into the river. It'll still explode, but won't cause any damage." He took another drag, "I would've done the same with the others, but the drops are kept a secret until the very last moment. Bogo ensured himself from within. He made sure that no-one would be able to stop the plan even if they wanted to."

"There's a plan?" She interjected suddenly; more bombs. How many? How many could he possibly have planted, and where? "Ritter, how time sensitive is this?"

"I doesn't matter. We're already too late." He looked out the window again, "We could still stop it if, and this is a big 'if', we had all the locations. But we don't. And we won't have them for some time." He paused, "You. You won't have them." An odd turn of phrase, but it merely entered her subconscious, her conscious mind too busy quantifying the consequences of what he was telling her; the deaths, the damage, the terror, "Our 'plan', if you want to call it that, started out small. Bogo and a few others grew tired of their work some fifteen years back. Began breaking small laws, and then moved onto bigger ones. They started working with organized crime, selling weapons seized as evidence and pawning off cars in impound lots. But it grew. Thelonious was at the forefront of it all. One after the other, all those he worked with at a higher level, all those that he helped insure from any possible internal investigations disappeared. They began dropping like flies, one after the other. Freak accident here, a disappearance there, and no-one to investigate it. Crossing Thelonious Bogo ten years ago meant crossing every single syndicate in town. The storm that would follow would serve as a warning to others." Judy kept nodding time and time again, eyes widening with each word, and breaths turning quicker; two years she worked for this man. Two years she helped him do this. Doubt every arrest you've ever made. Now she knew why those images came to her last night. Why she began questioning every piece of her own professional career, "I myself wasn't involved with it until it grew beyond that. Bogo wanted more than a bunch of paid-off cops under his heel. He wanted power. And power, Judy..." He rolled the window down and threw the cigarette out, and she did the same, turning away for just a moment. When she looked back, his eyes were locked on her, cold and empty, devoid of any emotion, retelling the events of the past in an almost robotic inflection, "Power corrupts."

"What happened next?" Her question came out in a single breath. The entire space of her back lay drenched in cold sweat. Even if he had pulled a gun on her right now, she would not move. She was incapable of it. Each and every single muscle in her body was locked in place. Ice beat through her veins.

"One morning, he called us into his office. Stood by his table like usually did. It was a select number of us. I became one of his favourites amongst the 'footsoldiers'. Didn't know anyone else in the room. They all worked investigative positions, had more direct contact with politicians, city councilmen, and fixtures in the criminal underground. They were all far more important. But, in hindsight, I was just as instrumental to all this as they were. I digress." He cleared his throat slightly, and then coughed, "This was Thelonious' way of telling us that we're all getting promoted. He was honouring us. And then he unveiled the plan." The wolf closed his eyes, "He called it 'Operation Lazarus'. We were the very first to know about it." His chin jerked to one side quickly, and then to the other; he appeared to be struggling to keep his voice level, "It was then that we found out about his world view, about the way he saw everyone in the city. 'Might makes right' is the best way to some it up. To Thelonious, it was never about predators versus prey, about species versus species. It was the rule of the strong over the weak. He called it 'naturalism'." Ritter's paws shook as he spoke and he barely managed to find a firm grasp on his own chin; his tone, however, remained just as cold as before, "And then it occurred to me; everyone that I was with in that room fit into the category of strong. Bulls, elephants, water buffalo, rhinoceroses, wolves, and so on. Thelonious' ideal world is one where everyone works for us. He wanted us to show everyone, in that hypothetical future of his, how we could kill them with a single motion of our paws. How they were nothing, and we were everything. This would keep them docile, he claimed, and ensure that we lived the rest of our lives as kings." A lull in the conversation occurred. Ritter took deep, laboured breaths. His shoulders rose and fell beneath his uniform, and he leaned forward, over the steering wheel; in the darkness, his outline drawn in strong lines by the back-light, he looked almost feral, "Not only would the weak not even think about rebelling, they would be commanded not to. Nature's way, he called it. In his eyes, we were undoing three thousand years of injustice and treason. Thelonious armoured his entire philosophy. Everyone became our enemy."

"Hence the name..." Judy whispered, "He was going to..."

"Revive the old order of things, yes. Kings and serfs. Masters and slaves." His lips lay twisted into an expressionless line, but she could sense his fear; the burden of a creature that knows what he's created, and what he is responsible for, "It went downhill from there. No matter what we did, we were right, and everyone else was wrong. I actually believed it, Judy. For a few precious moments every day, looking at myself in the mirror..." A glimpse of something appeared in the corner of his eyes. Tears, "And I believed everything he said. We were the chosen people of the Gods. Faster, stronger, smarter, better. A master race. But..." He swallowed a bitter gasp, "I fell in love. With a sheep. A sheep, Judith. I loved her more than anything in this world. She was perfect. Intelligent, well-spoken, and loving. Caring beyond anything. We would stay up for hours and just...talk. I began to forget everything he taught me. Supremacy didn't matter any-more. How could it? How could an inferior species produce something so radiant and pure? It all slipped away from under me. When she wasn't there, I felt...conflicted. I was betraying everything. I was undoing what we tried so hard to build by merely following what I found to be true. But then she'd reappear, and I'd stop caring. Inevitably, he called me into his office. I tried my best to keep it secret, but the news had reached him somehow. The moment they did, it was too late." Otis Ritter wept through closed eyes, "He loaded the gun, put it my paws, and pushed it towards me. The Gods will it, he said. He called my feelings unnatural. I believed him. I believed him when he told me that she was a manifestation of the very corruption we were fighting."

"Otis, no..." Judy reached for him but he tore himself away, shivering madly, breaths turned to hisses.

"And then...I did it! I fucking did it! I told her I loved her, kissed her good-bye one last time, and made her look away..." The pitch of his voice heightened the quicker he spoke, and his paws gripped at one another tightly, pressure meeting pressure, rending it all apart, "Her wool looked so marvellous in the morning sun." He swallowed quietly, "I...I had done my duty. I destroyed something beautiful." Once again, it all became a flat line, "Thelonious took me in after that. Said I had shown myself to be the most capable out of all of them. I repressed it. I repressed the melody of her voice, and the warmth her presence had once given me. During her funeral, I did not cry. I even smiled once. She was dead. She wouldn't take me from my brothers." Ritter was hissing each word out, "For ten fucking years, I followed him, I listened to him, and the more time passed, the more vulgar and daring he became. It turned to a game. What was the biggest thing we could do and still not get caught? We infiltrated everything. We rigged elections, changed the order of play in Zootopia. Lionheart is one of our own. So is Buller, Sugarfang, Adams...the list goes on, Judy."

"By the Gods..." All names of high-ranking members of the city council, instrumental in making decisions that profoundly affected the day-to-day life within Zootopia's boundaries. Things began to emerge. Changes forced by ideology. Slowly sculpting life into a more malleable form for themselves. To assume power one must first set conditions for it. Little by little, step by step, everything went in their favour. There was nothing that she could say, nothing coherent, to even give form to what Ritter had described, "He's a monster."

"No. We're all monsters." The bitter shakes of his head as he tried to negate the facts tugged at the bunny beside him, but she did not dare touch him any-more, barely even capable of looking at him, "We have all brought this into existence. The fact that I am doing this now doesn't make me any better than them. It doesn't atone for my crimes against animal kind, and everything I had done in service of a creature that blinded us with his sick ideology. This is why I said that you didn't know anything. What you have is barely the very edge of the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more to this. Things not even I know. He hid his footprints from everyone but himself. There is only one animal in this city that knows the whole truth, and his name is Thelonious Bogo." Ritter drew breath rapidly and shivered in place. Silence drifted between them again. Softness. The breeze blowing through the undercarriage of the car. Distant, rolling thunder. It all existed in some faraway place.

"You're wrong..." Judy uttered, voice skirting the boundary between a whisper and a firm proclamation, but the strength she needed to sound persuasive left her; nothing she could do now, "You are better than the rest of them. You spoke out against this. You can still tell good from evil, Ritter."

"That's so typical of you, Judy." He laughed to himself, a titter born of desolation and abandonment, no closer than the rattle of thunder, "You always see the best in everyone. In a way, you're the reason why." He looked away again; two brown, tear-stained eyes, formerly delicately observing the nuances of life, but perpetually pushed down by the weight of a terrible secret, now lost all focus, "The reason why I spoke out. Two months ago, you entered my life. Pure of heart and motive. Fundamentally just. And yet...inferior. Or at least he'd like us to believe that you are." He gave a muddled sigh, "I saw in you something I promised I'd never see again. Goodness in the lesser ones. I don't think you know just how much of her there is in you..." Once again, his eyes locked with her, "Remember our first arrest?" She did; they were tasked with detaining an otter that had failed to pay his taxes, and he fled. Ritter intercepted with the car and Judy slapped the cuffs on him. Four miles on foot. It was a profoundly radiant moment in her career, as she had both arrested someone that was on the bulletin, and broken the precinct's record for the longest on-foot pursuit at the same time, "I can still recall the way you laughed as Clawhauser handed you that slip of paper. No-one but you considered it important. It was an arbitrary number that we kept in the back of our heads, and never thought about, but you broke it just to prove that you could. That you would run that far for the sake of justice. It was exactly the sort of thing she would've done." Before Judy had a chance to respond, Ritter turned away from her and reached for something underneath the steering wheel. He passed it to her. It was a small, black USB stick, with a tape across it, to affix it to the base of the steering column, "I had been hiding this in here for some time now. It's a key." She took it and looked it over; an insignificant little fragment of plastic and metal, "Bogo's terminal needs a biometric scan of his fingerprint to access the data, but if you plug this in before you turn it on, it'll register just the same. Inside you'll find everything." He leaned back and rested his head against the seat, staring out, "Recently he's started to think of himself as some sort of God-given revolutionary. I imagine he's writing everything down. Revolutionaries tend to do so. The need for legitimacy and all that." Once again, something beyond the interior of the car took his attention, and he stared, "Do right by this, and you'll do right by her. You'll have done what I never could." Without another breath, he swung the door of the car wide open and stepped outside. Ritter walked with purpose towards her own car. Judy opened the door on her own side and began to follow him.

"Ritter, what are you doing?" She caught up with him easily and walked beside him, but he remained silent, disciplined eyes facing forward, "Where are you going? You left the car behind."

"I suppose you think I was naive, don't you?" He walked quicker, past the yellow sub-compact, and towards the far side of the building, "That I had fallen for all of this and found myself unable to walk away?"

"I do, and I don't blame you for any of it. You did some horrible things, but you stepped forward. You have a conscience. You know of justice. You're a whistle-blower now, Otis. The law has mechanisms in place to protect you." She finished her sentence just as they arrived on the other side of the lot, "You'll still serve time but it'll be reduced greatly, and you'll most likely be recognised as a hero for what you've done." He stood at the concrete divider and looked out, the rain coursing down his face, striking him, and she watched as he closed his eyes, "Ritter?"

"The door was never closed. I could've walked away any time I wanted to. But I chose not to, just like the rest of them." He pulled his uniform out of his trousers and placed his paw atop his belt, "I wanted to see how far we could go. What else we could do. We assumed that glory was our right, given to us by the Gods. That our providence was unbreakable. Now these fields lie just as barren as they were when we took it upon ourselves to bring them back to their former greatness." The roar of the wind intensified, and it flung the hem of his shirt aside, revealing a black grip, "Our lives have become a flat circle. We sowed death and devastation, and that is all we shall reap."

"You said you weren't armed." She jumped back a little as he reached for it, but instead of turning around, he merely kept it by his side, arm rigid; the revolved was identical to hers, just in a better state, and with a nickel finish; it refracted the light, and he turned it a bit, catching drops of rain atop it.

"I lied." This time, he did turn towards her; she pressed her left foot forward and leaned towards him, right paw already having undone her holster. The chequering of the grip was coarse against her palm, giving warmth with each tug, but radiated a deathly cold along with it. He cocked the revolver and raised it, holding it close to his chest; fear froze the gears of her mind. In the turmoil, an idea had appeared, but became lost in her urge to defend herself; this bullet is not for you, "They say you die twice: the first time is when you stop breathing. The second is when someone says your name for the last time." He took a step back and stood on the edge of the concrete wall, hanging roughly seventy feet above the pavement below, and struggling to keep himself steady against the gale; but he kept his balance, "Her name was Claire Gibbs."

"Ritter, no!" In a flash, he raised the weapon to his chin and looped his finger through the trigger-guard. Far too fast for Judy to react. Far too close to the edge for her to knock it out of his paw with a leap. He would fall regardless.

"I'm coming home." The bang was tremendous. It shattered everything. Before her eyes, she saw the flash, and then, nothing. Ritter was gone. The wind had taken him. Seconds later, she heard a thud. All she could see before herself was her paw, grasping at the air, and the rays of a young sun as they drifted inwards. The morning had arrived. And Otis Ritter was dead.

Half an hour later, she woke Nick with her hysterical weeping. He found her suspended above the bathroom sink, desperately throwing pawful after pawful of water in her face in a futile attempt to wipe a single, invisible drop of blood away.


	10. Your Time Has Come

What is a moment? An amalgamation of sights, sounds, smells, sensations, and emotions. A perfect composite image, frozen, in eternity. Subject to recollection, to paws sinking into the cold waters of time and raising from the subconscious to the waking, but not an empirical mechanism, at its core; slave to change in ourselves. In time, the frame that her mind captured so vividly upon that precipice of change would fade and modify. Perhaps he would not always fall in the same way. Perhaps one day, he would not fall at all. She would expunge and forget, and all that would remain is the silent reminder that he was no longer there. That in one moment, he stood, and in the next, he didn't. A puppet with its strings torn from the sockets, left to fall, helpless and without purpose, in some heap, crumbling. She looked out the window as Nick drove through the city streets, accompanying her to work as he did every morning, before heading down his own route, a short distance away from the station. Nothing was different. Animals still shuffled to work. He still changed gears, stopped at each light, waited for the parade of colourful pedestrians to pass, and moved on, throwing up turn signals in each corner as her own body leaned involuntarily to one side and then to the next, affected by the laws of physics against which she could not find the strength to struggle. Judy closed her eyes. Darkness. No images to come and haunt her now. Two weeks spent trying to bring herself to not think about anything when she closed her eyes. Fourteen days during which she tried her absolute hardest to feel nothing beyond a sense of duty towards an abstract notion of justice. Justice which she could only sum up in words with her husband's assistance, where he would add things that she herself forgot, and his swift, sharp tongue would aid her in explaining why she did what she did, even to herself. But now she felt nothing. There was that chasm again. A hole into which nothing fit any more. The sunlight was radiant, penetrating, and all-consuming. Her lower stature meant that the sun-shade which Nick lowered helpfully did nothing to protect her from the invasive rays. Given when she woke up, she thought she would at least be tired. But the idea of sleep became an impossibility; for a second she was utterly convinced that she would never sleep again. How could she? Urgency superseded all else, even her natural need for rest, for recuperation steeped in fantastic portraits of time frozen. He would come and haunt her. His broken form would chase her through the night, joining at once with all those that had been pursuing her doggedly for what seemed to be an eternity. To dread sleep, she thought, was the ultimate form of terror. To feel your blood curl in your veins at the thought of something so innocent and basic. Everything left her. His arms were cold when he grasped her. Amongst the yellow of the morning skies, webs lay spun, anchored to invisible places, stretching above; aircraft flying, taking their passengers to places beyond, to continents near and far. Rushing time-zones. It took him nearly a full minute to drag her from the sink and get her to calm down, to take a breath or two, and regain her sense of composure, as futile as it was to call it that, lest she pass out from the shock. And that is what he told her. She hadn't heard his exact words, but he mouthed it; you're in shock. That moment of nothingness tasted bitter. A quarry tainted by the act of capturing it.   
  
The pain in her chest subsided quickly, far quicker than she thought it would. It was a crushing sort of pressure. The inability to fully form one's own breaths. Judy felt that pull of the trigger. She felt the bang, the crack, the terrifying liquid noise produced by the contents of his skull as he expelled them violently from the top of his head. Someone had been sitting on her chest from the moment she crossed the door. Experience mingled with innocence. The phantom pains of her youth, felt when she lay awake deep into the night, unable to sleep from the skipping sound of her own heart, returned in force, to form an abstract painting of inflicted areas on the middle of her back and just above her right breast. He held her. He would not release her from his embrace until her tears ran dry and her breaths fell back into their natural sine wave; inhale, exhale. It began just as she pulled into the parking lot. Something on her face. An adjustment of the rear-view mirror verified her fears; blood. A tiny crimson spot amongst the grey expanse of her fur. But it was there. And it began burning, softly at first, and the violently. Erase it all. Now she had a parting in her fur. The furious nature of her rubbing shed the bristles which covered that spot and resulted in a jutting pink spot. Now she covered it haphazardly with some make-up. Despite her husband's repeated assurances that it was invisible, she still felt as if a chasm had appeared on her face. A crack in her being. She calmed down too quickly. Too soon did those images become nothing at all, too soon did the pursuit of duty replace the pain she was supposed to feel. The pain she was supposed to feel, she repeated, running over those seven words in her head. Death is a strange thing. Disbelief, abandonment, a sense of loss, followed by acceptance, perhaps through reason, and perhaps through spiritualism, but always ending in acceptance; he would be up there now. Dancing amongst the spider-webs woven from condensate, forever to watch over her, to remind her of why it all needed to be broken for it to work again. But it came too quickly. Her breaths steadied in a matter of fifteen minutes. Not even the gasps or the stark prongs of failure to tether her to a sensation of sadness. Instead she explained what happened to Nick in a neutral tone. The very same tone Bogo used to describe the victims of the nightclub massacre. Pragmatism. The incision on her forearm burned. One quick glance made sure that Nick had his eyes on the road. She rolled the sleeve back. To feel nothing. The chase was over. Now she recalled why. Life was a see-saw for her, forever teetering precariously between two extremes: feeling too little, and fearing that moment in which nothing bore any significance any more, and feeling too much, where all the aches of a cruel world descended upon her shoulders. Failure. Keloid scarring, pink and fresh, barely a year and a half gone. New cells to replace the old which she had torn in hopes of destroying herself. Rebuilt from a deep crimson. Only one arm. Had she done the second as well, she wouldn't have had the power to pick up the phone and call for help. And then she would die. Nick would return to find her turned on her back in a pool of her own blood, having hardened and turned to black from the amount of time that passed, and that would be that. In time he would learn to cope with it. Had it succeeded, she would also become a distant memory. Something altered.   
  
Nick himself showed nothing but concern. It was a perfectly anticipated response. After all, he had never met Ritter, let alone known him like she did. Judy drummed her digits along her knee. Nervous habit. Sensing her own touch upon herself calmed her. You're not a disembodied consciousness, she would remind herself; you are someone. You are a wholesome, fragile thing, just like everyone else. But this time, it was not a source of comfort. It merely reminded her of fragility. Of the aches she felt. A heart stopping from disease, destroyed by unhealthy habits. Her left arm turned to a river of dullness, accentuated further by a small, pulsating ache slightly to the left of her sternum. Anxiety. She knew it was anxiety. Judy found herself almost regretting that fact. If she were to collapse now, nothing would hurt any more. No burdens to be carried. No justice to be delivered to the door-steps of those that needed it most. Rest without pursuance. Of course he was worried. Each and every incidence of pain like this threatened to usurp the delicate balance of her mind. She wondered whether Nick felt as if he was losing her. She turned to him now. Orange fur, black-tipped ears, green eyes locked on the road, cemented within a neutral expression. He was probably afraid of what this meant. How much closer to the edge would it bring her? Would she fall this time? Would his only reward for loving her as completely as he did be the memory of a broken form from which all blood had been drained by conscious action? Or perhaps she would do it with a gun. What did steel taste like? She shook her head. Feel nothing. The world did not flow any-more. No longer were the synapses of the city waking and rushing, pulsating, beating, groaning beneath the touch of action, to steer this gargantuan vessel called life. Live in the moment. You will enter the station. You will not make eye contact, but you will also pretend as if nothing is different. Act as if you're surprised. As if you're gutted, devastated, as if this means your whole world has been swept out from under your feet; feel the way you're supposed to feel. Not like you're feeling now. Selfish. Ritter was unburdened. He had chosen the easy way out of this. But no matter how deeply she searched within herself, Judy could not find the power to blame him. If she were in the same position, she would inevitably end the same way. Lying broke atop a dumpster in the waterfront district. The car stopped suddenly. She turned. The precinct reflected every ray of light that struck it. A massive mirror. This is who you are, it would say to the people. This is a reflection of your actions. We are necessary because there is evil amongst you. Purity constructed, put permeated from within by threads of darkness. To protect and serve. To protect your rotten ilk and serve your own coffers, your own mad desire for more power.   
  
"Take care of yourself." He said, and she nodded quietly, "Please don't do anything stupid." Nick knew about the key. She had shown him the device as soon as she got her breath back and began explaining what happened. She also gave him the Dictaphone, from which he downloaded the audio track. Evidence, to piece together exactly what happened and why. They had reasoned that the small, black device would look innocent on him, if anyone went looking, resembling a regular USB drive, and that carrying it into the station meant certain death.   
  
"I promise I won't." She leaned over and embraced him; it was a tighter embrace than she was initially going for. A quick hug before work. But now she pulled him in and held him close, and he did the same. His breath rushed through her ear, a soft, whispering breeze. She kissed his cheek briefly, and then did it again, a second time, eyes closed tightly, "I love you, Nicholas. Stay safe." There was safety in his grasp. Beyond the door of their car lay a world of unknowns, steeped in assumptions, where anything could happen. He was here now. His form, his breath, his being, all so close to hers; an easier time. In a matter of seconds it could all change for the worst. When did it become like this? Afraid of everything. Afraid of going to work, afraid of staying home, afraid of taking a walk outside. Neither of them knew when it would come. Two kicks to the door and a crash. And it would all end like this. But they knew this going in. Judy pulled him closer still, until the fabric of his shirt turned to waves between her fingers; this was a suicide pact from the start. Death was their only way out. Despite knowing that, they fought to live.   
  
"I love you too, carrots." He pulled away and locked eyes with her; green like the leaves of the coming summer, "I'll see you at home."  
  
The seamless white tiling of the station reflected the light that streamed in from above, and painted the far wall and its adjacent walkways a shade of bright yellow, clear almost. Before the reception desk lay a set of coloured tiles differing substantially from all the other ones; a seal of the ZPD, with its motto surrounding it, white on blue. Fidels ad mortem. Faithful unto death. Clawhauser was already at the desk, and talking to a police-woman from the night shift, a broad-shouldered and proud tigress with her paws on her hips. They turned and locked eyes with Judy. In an instant, both of them turned to one another, nodded, and looked down. The police-woman removed her cap and Clawhauser put his morning doughnut down.   
  
"My condolences..." Two voices murmured as she walked past and towards the steps; more officers past her, and all engaged in the same routine. Look down, or away, but not at her, and remove your cap. She carried no weapons that day. The revolver was in the car, in the glove compartment, beside her tazer and her bottle of pepper spray. She hadn't told Nick what the most likely outcome of today was; a paid grievance period. Seeking reassignment so quickly would be suspicious. She put her paws into her pockets and walked up the steps with her head bowed. Their conference room was on the first floor. Normally, there would be ample noise by now. Officers trickled in, some as early as half an hour before it began, for the sake of coffee and a quick snack in the place of breakfast. Friendly jabs mingled with jokes and reminders of one another's birthdays. It was a comfortably professional atmosphere, but relaxed, their lives marked by the persistent singe of duty. We live together, we die together. In rare cases, it would spread beyond the station and briefing room, into the lockers and gyms that the station had attached to itself, places where Judy ventured rarely, instead finding comfort and relaxation in married life. But this morning, there were no jokes. No sounds of revelling in the coming of another day; clamouring voices all saying the same thing: we're still alive, and still fighting. The door to the room was open. Bogo wasn't present yet, but many others were. She stepped inside and stood at the threshold for a moment. Some twenty eyes locked on her. Everyone was here. Except for Ritter. They were staring at her now, at the bunny that lived, with her badly-covered spot of bare fur, and the now-faint bruise on her eye, and the cotton wads sticking out of her fractured nostrils. Nearly all of them looked down, suddenly finding interest in the tips of their feet or the surfaces of the wooden desks. Fake it. Pretend you don't know.   
  
"Good morning, eve-" She said, and stopped, doing her best to widen her eyes in surprise; make sure no-one can tell that you were there, "What's wrong?" One of them stood. Reuben Martic. Wide shoulders appeared to be a trait shared by tigers across the board. He grasped his hat from the table and held it just below his waist, with two nervous paws kneading at the black vinyl rim.   
  
"Officer Hopps...Judy..." None of them ever called her by her first name, "Something happened." She walked closer now, still keeping her eyes wide, but curious, "Otis Ritter is dead." She considered the idea of crying before she came in, but by the time she was inside the room, Judy decided against it; to her surprise, the tears came of their own volition. Perhaps it was hearing someone else say it that finally drove the point home. There was more in that one word than she ever considered: dead. Gone for good. No more witticisms about the nature of sloths, musings about the more exhausting parts of daily live, or quips about police work. No more mad grinning when she asked for a picture. No more good-natured slaps on the back or aside smiles when she sat on a suspects' back, loudly reciting them their rights. Otis Ritter was gone. To fear that one may feel to little was an absurd one, she thought, between the flurry of images of her former partner, interloped by snap-shots of the confession, the pain in his voice, the gunshot, and the fall, the long, distant fall into the unknowable beyond. Martic walked her to her seat, keeping a paw on her shoulder, and he gave her a pat. As easy as the tears may have come, they went away quickly. She ushered focus back into herself. Bogo would enter the room at any moment now. He'd most likely go into detail. You're expected to act surprised again, she reminded herself. Hopefully he'd tell her that she can leave if she so desired. Most officers that lost a partner opted to do so, and despite it being presented as a question, no professional would treat it as such. Respect is a fundamentally dual concept, affecting both the bereaved, her in this case, and her colleagues. She was grateful for the opportunity to leave the room. And for the fact that she left her weapons in the car. Now she knew the truth behind Thelonious' game. Six animals already paid with their lives for this. Five no-names, strangers, five blank-faced unknowns in a world brimming with defined digits would merely cause her nightmares and send her spiralling back down into the darkness where all that remained were right-angled incisions on her wrists; but she would fight that, and come back stronger. Bogo's first mistake was letting her live when he clearly had the chance to end her right then and there, and destroy something that would come back to haunt him. It did. She was justice. She was undoing the strings of his game, piece by piece, and he was none the wiser. An assumption that he was, that is, but Judy was certain that he did not know. If he did know what Ritter gave her, he would come in through that door, usher her into his office, and kill her. The way of power is filled with obstacles, and Bogo made his second, fully unconscious mistake last night. But it was his mistake, undoubtedly so. It was he that set the gears in motion, that put the mechanism into Ritter's mind and forced him to follow, and it was him who pulled that trigger, ultimately. Six victims that she knew of. One of which was a critical error. Thelonious Bogo broke the code. And when the code was blemished, there was but one thing that would set it right: vengeance. Judith Rose Hopps had vengeance in spades that morning. After all, her husband was carrying it to work with himself momentarily.   
  
"Good morning." Heavy footsteps down the hall, and there he was; dark-furred, top-heavy, and undoubtedly masculine, but ugly. She hadn't noticed how disfiguring his scowl was before. How utterly despicable he looked wearing that frown, with pulled-down eyebrows, which would never move; shed some light on any given animal and you'll find plenty to hate, "I'm sure you've all heard the news." Judith scowled herself now. How dare he? How dare he simply call Ritter's death 'the news'? Professionalism called for it, naturally, but he could've worded it differently. If you're going to be a sociopath, she hissed within herself, at least fucking try to hide it, you son of a bitch.   
  
"What happened to Otis Ritter is a terrible tragedy, and my heart goes out to officer Judith Hopps, who lost her partner of two months." His hand curled above his heart and he made a giving gesture towards her, and she wiped her scowl quickly, giving a quaint and polite, but deeply grief-stricken smile; she was going to break that hand in due time, "Suicide is a terrible thing. I once more remind you of the Zootopia Saints' Suicide Hotline, which is open twenty-four-seven. If you are feeling the pressures of police work, call. They can help. You are not alone." Fuck you. She felt her paws curl up beside her hips. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Police work. As if. He served his master well, and this is all he gets? A token fucking reminder of the fact that there was a suicide hotline he could've called. She promised before that she would go digging for his pressure points. That was a promise made with her weapon of choice being her fingers. Now it was a dulled spoon, sharpened just enough to break the skin, but turned in a way which caused the largest possible amount of pain. Attempting to appear apprehensive and saddened whilst also containing her rage took her toll on Judy, and she decided that she would leave. He could not stop her. She was going to board a tram, go home, and once there, she is going to listen to the recording and collect the evidence. Judy pushed the chair back and stood up in silence. She walked around the desk, past Bogo's seat and the empty podium, and towards the door. Everyone in the room stood up and began applauding. It was a respectful, solemn rattle that rushed through her ears, and she turned, eyes still shimmering, and gave a respectful little nod, wiping her cheek for good measure. As soon as she looked away, she went back to scowling. Her teeth grit against one another, and she could feel her four front ones, dead-ends of evolution, fold over one another and scrape together. He was going to pay. She walked towards the steps. One of the officers stood up and closed the door. It looked the exact same as all the other ones; for such a sleek and modern building, the central precinct had little in the way of diversity amongst its more technical furnishings. A simple, wooden rectangle with a glass window on the top half, the same as every other single-wing door in the building. This was a deliberate choice. The light streaming in from behind would illuminate the writing on it, done in black cursive with a brush, thus immediately showing visitors in front of whose office they were standing. Bogo's door looked exactly the same, but was slightly darker in colour. A mainstay from before the renovation effort. The outdated design meant that no-one from inside could see her shadow as she snuck past it. Judy was simply too short. A larger animal would be plainly visible, but she could get about undetected. Time to do some digging in Bogo's own back yard, she thought. Agency. Bogo wished he had taken hers in the absolute. She took the first left, towards his office.   
  
For a moment the bunny stood and observed. Nothing out of the ordinary. Plain, white walls, stretching to the end of the hall and winding hard to the left and the right; the former led to a walkway, a partition between internal and external windows, a testament to some by-gone age in architecture, and the latter led to a slew of office spaces where desk workers assembled files, sent fiscal reports by means of capsule pipelines, and did other menial tasks which served to support the remainder of the force. But Bogo's door is what she focused on. His office was wide. A cold gripped her as she saw that door. The last time she was here, he did what he did, and the memories were alive within her. The bruise on her eye faded nearly completely, and her sclera had once more assumed its natural shade of white, but small shivers, in the forms of pins and needles, still coursed through it. A bitter reminder. She caressed her left cheek, just below where the bruise terminated, and sighed to herself. Entry points, Judith. The inside of the station was devoid of security cameras. At least its bowels were. Some of the more open spaces like the walk-ways did. Their tapes were subject to Bogo's whims as much as anything else inside the precinct. How else would he have gotten rid of his dirty laundry regarding his treatment of her? But here, within the deep, winding halls of justice and honour, they were not required. It's not as if law enforcement personnel were going to break the law. The potted plant at the corner appeared to stare at her menacingly. It was a bushy, green object, and she recalled that her last close encounter with it was voiding the contents of her stomach into it as a result of her concussion. Judy raised her left paw and flashed a middle finger. Now you're giving inanimate objects the bird, she murmured and chuckled to herself. Perhaps he did succeed in making her lose her mind after all. She continued looking. Something in the corner caught her attention, just by the end of the hall. A ventilation shaft. If Judy hadn't been in a public space, wandering madly about an area she should not be in, given the circumstances, she may have ended up doing a victory dance. This was her in, as clear as day. The building must surely have an extensive ventilation system. Step one was complete. But wandering along hundreds of miles of piping, blind and without any knowledge of where she was going was not an option. There must be a floor-plan to it. Judy pressed her chin into her paw and thought about what to do. Her first option was the city's municipal office; they had the floor-plans to every official building, but doing so would most certainly get Bogo's attention, if there was any veracity to what Ritter had said. Their faction infiltrated everything, at the highest echelons of power. Therefore infiltrating the municipal construction offices would've been trivial. No, there had to be something else. Judy looked over her shoulder. The noise inside the conference room was dying down. She had to get out of sight, and quickly. The elevator provided ample cover, and gave her time to consider the problem at paw. She paced to it quickly and hit the -1 button out of habit. Garage. They'd be going down here soon, too. Hide in the car if you've got nowhere else to go.   
  
The elevator rattled and shook as it sank into the concrete tubing which led to the below-ground levels, and through the narrow window in either of the doors, Judy could see the light fade. No-one would see her. Once again, her stature, a matter of great insecurity in days gone by, had become her saving grace. Then it occurred to her. Who has been in this precinct for the longest, could be trusted in the absolute, and most likely had a copy of the plans stowed away some-place due to her fear of throwing anything out? Knocking on the suspect exchange window without a perp in tow felt strange, but not any stranger than it did before, when she paid the cat ample visits. Sure enough, the intercom beside the door buzzed.   
  
"Judy?" The voice called in surprise, and to her left she could see an inquisitive blue eye scanning the hallway behind her. Her paw released the Venetian blinds and they collapsed onto one another with a muffled rattle. It didn't take Trisha long to connect the dots. The door swung wide open. Before Judy stood a tall, slender tabby cat, face bereft of make-up and showing all the lines of middle age. Between her index and middle finger, holding the door, sat a cigarette, expiring disinterestedly into the air. Bright, orange fur mingled well with the purple of her dress and shirt, and with a fick of her paw, she swung her long, luscious black hair over her shoulder; if there ever was a creature that could appear majestic and haggard at the same time, and in surroundings made of bare concrete and lit with hollow neon, it was Trisha Rodgers, "Come right in, hun. Just made some tea. Fancy a spot of it?" The thick continental accent with which she spoke had an airy sort of twist to itself, which only helped her reinforce her intellectual superiority amongst her unpleasant colleagues. This was, in part, what made her quips so scathing. Trisha sounded educated.   
  
"Hey, Trish." Judy greeted with a wave and followed. The room in which the tabby worked was bare, dry, and bereft of any personal touches. A map of Zootopia adorned the wall, riddled with thumb-tacks, linked with red strings, and with several photographs of suspects stuck to it, on prominent display. Trisha had a waking, active mind, and she would spool her own yarns while the rest of the force worked separately. Everyone knew that, if you wanted to find a pattern of arrests, she was your woman. No-one kept a record as meticulous and comprehensive as hers. Beyond the map, a locker sat in the corner, beyond which lay a hallway to a private elevator. This led up to suspect booking and interrogation. Single-animal elevator, operated remotely, with strict weight limits and locks on the doors. You'd put your suspect in there and ferry him up without anyone needing to be in a cramped space with a potentially dangerous individual. A pair of metal chairs inhabited the space beyond the request desk, with a wooden table pulled to the wall, covered in folders, files, and papers, and topped with a small, glass ashtray, filled to the brim with discarded butts. This is where she worked the long hours away. During the early days of her employment at this precinct, she spent a substantial amount of time down here, passing her lunch break with Trish, discussing anything and everything; the tabby had a passion beyond simply processing suspects, and that was writing. She was very good at it, too. Judy received a manuscript from her once, a short story which Trisha typed out in the span of two afternoons, and upon reading it, the bunny was overcome with emotion. There simply was nothing else like it. A longing for more, for an existence beyond this, shone through every word, as penned by a lonely, but wholesome individual whose sole regret was that she was the only one of her kind. Thriving in the subterranean darkness, cheap on words, with an ever-working mind and many multiple thoughts on anything and everything; in a way, she was similar to Ritter. For a very long time now she had been urging the tabby to publish her work but she'd always get a deflection in response. So she did not press the point. Judy hopped up on the chair and crossed her legs beneath herself, sitting up, eyes following Trisha as she wandered to the electric kettle at the edge of the table.   
  
"What brings you to my domain?" Trish asked as she took out a second mug. The act of blowing dust off it made Judy cringe inwardly, but it was better to not complain. Small and pink, a porcelain mug reserved for visitors. Most of them were rough, macho males, and she loved seeing them cup the small implement in their massive paws. Only once did Judy sit in at a meeting with a third participant, and while she received a paper cup, the rhino that accompanied her sat in silence, clutching the bright pink container with the grace of a flash-bang in a maternity ward. Everything Trisha did was more or less a personalized gesture. She knew how to comfort someone just as much as she knew how to make them deeply uncomfortable; the only woman for whom Judy had more raw respect was Nick's mother, Clementine.   
  
"You make it sound as if you're some sort of dragon." Judy remarked, and listened to her feline colleague laugh raspily.   
  
"Come back when one of those fuck-nuggets from forensics requisitions my folders." She passed a mug to the bunny and sat opposite her, crossing one knee over the other, and swaying her mug, "That's when I turn to a dragon. Still, you didn't answer my question."  
  
"It's a sensitive matter." She noted, and Trish gave a long nod, followed by a tentative sip of tea; the sway of her white-tipped tail was almost mesmerizing.   
  
"You know my lips are sealed, I hope." It was Judy's turn to give a nod, and Trish gave a smile. A soft porcelain rattle filled the air, created by the contact between a delicately manicured claw, unsheathed for that purpose alone, and the side of the mug.   
  
"Well, for starters, Ritter is dead." Gone was Trisha's calm demeanour as she went wide eyed, one eyebrow rising first, followed by the second one, "He's killed himself."   
  
"Bloody Hell, when?"   
  
"Yesterday." Judy remarked and set her mug down to let it cool, crossing her arms; the details returned to her in a rush. How would she put this? Was there even a way of wording it without implicating herself in it? In order for Trisha to understand why Ritter took that final step, she needed the whole picture. Without it, any amount of things could be inferred, "I...I was there."  
  
"What, when he..?" Trisha asked, and Judy gave a nod, eyes drifting to the floor of their own volition. There was nothing interesting there. Just an old rug pock-marked with burns; one of the rare luxuries that the tabby had. The sound of a chair scraping across the floor drifted into her ear and she looked up, only to find Trisha looking back, closer now. A paw scaled her shoulder and gave a few comforting strokes, "You alright?"  
  
"I'm fine." Judy responded, but before she could continue, she found her gaze lifted up once more. Trisha's paw moved to her chin and held her, gently, her eyes observing a collection of invisible spots on her face.   
  
"What on Earth happened to you? Did Ritter do this?" The tabby's mouth hung open as she examined her friend's features with interest, "Judy..."  
  
"Trish, it's okay, I promise." She gave an uneasy smile, to which Trish responded with a soft shake of her head, rooted in disbelief, "It was Bogo." This caused a sudden change in the clerk, who stood to her feet and paced to the other end of the room, a lot more strongly than Judy had ever seen her do. There was a calculated sort of tiredness in each of her motions and being this quick and light on her feet was cause for concern. The bunny observed with interest as the sways of her tail turned quicker and more broken-up.   
  
"Of course it fucking was." She spat, and walked back towards her, paws behind her back, "And I can assume why." She raised either of her palms up and made a pair of air-quotes, "His fucking 'revolution', isn't it?"  
  
"Wait, you know about that?" It was Judy's turn to look concerned and she tilted her head to the side, "Just how much do you know?"  
  
"I've known about it in broad strokes for years now." The tabby sat back down again and adjusted herself, and the chair beneath her gave an aged creak, "I'm one of the poster-girls for his 'racially pure' future."  
  
"Seriously?" Judy asked, incredulity rising in her voice, mingling with concern and confusion, and Trish nodded.   
  
"Why the fuck do you think I've been working an entry-level position down here for the last twenty years? I should've been promoted an age and a half ago." It was a rhetorical question, but Judy still shook her head in the negative, "If you think the way Bogo and his kin see the 'weak' is bad, you should see the way they see their 'own' women. We're animals to them, no better than those they'd very much like to send to their deaths. In his ideology, I'm a breeding sow. There to be fucked every day, all day by some fucking pure-blooded tabby like myself until I can give birth to more of his offspring, the males of which will be trained as soldiers and labourers, and the females sent off to suffer the same fate as I." Judy's blood ran cold; she knew that Bogo was a racialist and a 'naturalist' by his own admission, but that he would outright support eugenics? It made sense, and she wouldn't put it past him, "I'm in his inner circle."   
  
"You're...one of..." Judy stuttered, paws flailing madly before her as she tried to connect the dots, and to each half-formed suggestion, Trish nodded, "Why did you agree to it?"  
  
"I didn't." Trisha's voice steadied and the fury from it faded, and she tilted her head to the side, "C'mon, my best friend is a bunny. Do you really think I'm a racist like he is?" Judy smiled at that last remark; she didn't even know that Trisha had a system for categorizing the animals around her; to the bunny it always seemed as if they were classed into either 'bearable', like she was, 'obstruction', or 'hostile'. Best friend. There's a word she hadn't heard in a while. And for once she could agree with it. After all, Trisha was her shoulder to cry on at one point, despite her awkwardness when it came to openly discussing feelings, "Once he saw he couldn't get me buy into his shit, what with the Gods and manifest destiny or somesuch, he locked me up here. Where I can't get in the way. And since he knows that I'm bad with conversation, he knew that I wouldn't be able to contact anyone for help. Not that I had anyone. Another reason why he never thought I was a threat is because he doesn't see women as people; he sees us as walking cub factories. In Bogo's mind, I'm just a pussy and a pair of tits to serve as a morale booster when needed, and for more...practical purposes later on, as I've already said." Her tone turned acerbic, "So, tell me...how did you find out about the game he's been playing? I need to know everything."  
  
Judy reached for her mug and cradled in her paws, letting the warmth seep through her as she spoke; she told Trisha everything she knew. From Ritter's untimely demise, to the evidence piling up against Bogo, to the obstructions of justice involved in the night club murders, the key, and finally, the beating which started the fire itself. Trisha would respond with a nod here and there, an occasional exclamation of 'the bastard' or 'cunt' or whatever else she saw fit to interject with, and once she came to the descriptions of physical abuse, a comforting paw met her shoulder, followed by a warm smile and an understanding gaze. During the entire story, the pair went through nearly an entire kettle's worth of tea, smoking one cigarette after another, and taking a break when someone buzzed the intercom with a suspect. With a wave of her paw, Trisha urged Judy to hide, which she did behind the filing cabinet, making herself as small as possible. The suspect brought in that morning was an elephant suspected on stealing several large shipments of peanuts and selling them at a lower markup, the brief overheard conversation revealed. The elephant gave her a respectful and almost frightened nod when he passed but did not acknowledge the fact that she was obviously hiding. Instead, he filed into the elevator, and Trisha flipped the switch, letting the suspect ascend to his final destination.   
  
"You've got damn near everything on the fucker, well done." Trisha remarked as she pinned a preliminary photograph of the suspect onto the board, produced by a flash-bulb just outside the elevator; it settled the problem of mugshots right then and there. A small, transparent screen came out of the wall, the lens above the elevator door snapped a quick photograph, with the number being edited in digitally in a matter of seconds by a computer. The finished product would appear in a slit in the wall beside the table, standing above a small slot, and Trisha would collect it. Normally, these photographs were single-issue only, and attached at once to the folder, but Trisha's printer always made a duplicate. One for the pencil-pushers upstairs, and one for her own purposes, "What's next?"  
  
"I break into his computer." Judy remarked, and slapped her paws together, making a flat surface with the left and a fist with the right, "Plenty of evidence to go around, and no means for him to hide from it."  
  
"Blow the doors of Hell wide open, eh?" The tabby paced around the room as she blew on her tea, letting the fumes waft off and mingle with the cigarette smoke, "Good. That ought to rattle his leash a bit. He's out of control. Ritter told you a lot, but he didn't tell you this." Her green eyes met Judy's purple ones and the feline gave a wry, knowing smile, "Bogo was raised in a very religious household. He's always been an animal driven by faith. Now that he's gone mad with power, that's become a key component in his rhetoric." She raised a paw and made a pair of lips with her fingers, "It's all 'Gods this' and 'Gods that'. He thinks he's some sort of prophet. That he's got the truth that's going to save us all from burning in the depths of the Afterlife for all eternity."  
  
"Really?" Judy was surprised at this, but also slightly scared. She knew religious fanaticism from her own parents, and imagined that they and Bogo would agree on a lot of points, no matter the fact that they were inferior in his eyes, slaves to be made subservient to their masters.   
  
"Yep. What do you think he does in his office all day?" Trisha pointed upwards, "When he's not working, the mad bastard is praying. And he's got his own pantheon going. Forget Geia and all the other Gods most religious nuts worship, he's up to his chin in old, Northern mythology. Blond hair, blue eyes. Fucking Valkyries, all of them. Apparently, and this is something he told me personally, once he's done 'changing the world', he's going to write his own version of the Fables." With many multiple species mingling in Zootopia came their many religions, but at the core of nearly all of them lay the scripture, a single set of verses translated and travelled for nearly three thousand years now, known to her parents, practising Geians like the majority of the population, as the Gilded Fables. Tales of temperance and heroism before the Gods, naming the pantheon as what it is, and commanding the observance of various rituals, from the yearly Cleansing, to the weekly fast, "Mad bastard." Trisha spat.  
  
"Fuck me, he's really lost his mind." The bunny suggested and received an enthusiastic nod from her confidante, "You've known him for a long time now, right?"  
  
"From day one. He got transferred here a week after me. And you're going to ask me how he was when he first came in." Trisha sat down and crossed her legs again, right over left this time, shrugging a bit, "Same as everyone when they join the force. Motivated, driven, an over-achiever with stars in his eyes, but..." Just as Judy felt cold sweat envelop her, Trisha narrowed her eyes slightly, "Larger than life. He wanted more. He needed more. Most normal animals settle for a comfortable existence, they find pleasure in their work, love in those close to them and so on, but all Thelonious wanted was power. He saw what those at the top got. Their gilded cars and star-studded existences, and he wanted a slice of the pie, no matter how many people he had to run down in the process. By the time I got here, he was already very much into the crime world, but those were just the beginnings." Trisha sighed quietly, "Sometimes I think of that time as the 'good old days'. Never could I begin to suspect that he'd turn into the monster he is today. To me it seemed innocent enough. They were breaking minor laws. A speeding ticket here, a public disturbance there...nothing major. But then cracks began to appear. It all started when one of his close associates, a..." She lowered her forehead into her paw and snapped the fingers of her free, "Paul Growler. Yeah, Growler, that's the name. Anyway..." She took her tea back off the desk and drank the entire mug in one go, punctuating her point with a loud belch, which elicited a laugh from Judy, "Sorry, terribly unladylike of me." Trisha quipped, and the two friends shared a laugh, "So, this Growler lad decided to go out on town one night and rape a gazelle. Poor girl got through it in the end, but she looked devastated. So they covered it all up. Nothing came out. This is when Bogo first realized he could do anything to anyone and get away with it."  
  
"Cover up any crime, no matter how major." Judy nodded, following the tabby's words closely, and the latter nodded. Rape was a serious offence, and resulted in two to five decades spent watching the insides of a prison cell; naturally he'd protect one of his own from such a fate, "Did you two talk back then?"  
  
"Talked? Juds, he took me out one night. I just..." The feline's cheeks grew crimson beneath the thin fur of her face, and she cleared her throat, "I have a thing for men in uniform, okay? Something about him just made him irresistible. This was before I knew about the whole corruption fracas, mind you." Trisha noted and raised a finger, "The night was okay, if I recall correctly. He was just a bit pushy, but eager with his descriptions of how he was going to fix the world and save everyone and so on, and I was just...smitten by it. Much like you, though, but more sinister." She shook her head a bit, "And I'm not saying that so I don't offend you. I imagine you're a little scared. You fit the definition of Bogo's younger self perfectly, but I assure you, he was corrupted way before anyone began paying him to break the law. Power is key, as I said. More, and more, and more." Naturally she had read the bunny perfectly. Trisha. Keeping her locked up down here was tantramount to a crime in of itself. To cage a mind such as her own, despite how much the solitude and detachment seemed to please her, was cruel.  
  
"I see." Judy nodded, and leaned over, patting the feline's knee affectionately and smiling, "I was a bit scared, yes. But I'm not like him. Trust me, I know myself well enough." The bunny tilted her head to the side and gave a small, wary grin, "And last I know, you're not trying to jump my bones, are you?"  
  
"Don't flatter yourself." Trisha shot back, and returned the beam, "Anyway, the date was our first and last. He took me home that night. I let him. Hell, I was enjoying myself." She leaned to the side and covered her mouth with her paw, as if she was telling a raunchy secret, "For the record, despite how much he likes to think of himself as a member of the 'master race', he's a terrible bloody shag." This sent Judy's head swinging back with laughter, and Trisha responded with a profoundly naughty giggle of her own, "Came like a firehose in thirty seconds flat. I barely even felt anything. And there's nothing more awkward than watching a grown man struggle to get hard again when you're lying spread eagle in front of him." Trisha shrugged as she stirred the coffee with her claw, "In the end, we kissed a little and watched the last few moments of a soccer game before he passed out beside me. Snores like a lumber mill, that one. There was no second date. Even if Growler hadn't done what he did and started Bogo's power trip, I saw no future with the dick-head." Her jade eyes flashed mischievously over the rim of her mug, "Gods, imagine if we accidentally ended up getting hitched and he did that every night. I'd run the local supermarket's supply of batteries dry in a week." She wagged a finger in front of herself, "Never marry a man that can't give you the best orgasm of your life on a nightly basis."  
  
"Well, I'll check that one off, then. Nick's got no problems with that." She rubbed her upper arm a little; Trisha's lack of human contact meant that she was less than tacit about matters like these, but it amused and relieved the bunny. She couldn't talk about this with anyone else, "He's quite, uh...talented."   
  
"Aren't you just lucky?" The two shared a murmuring titter, "I can't complain myself. My boyfriend is a jazz pianist." Judy tilted her head to the side a bit.  
  
"You have a boyfriend?" This sent one of the bunny's eyebrows rising, and Trisha nodded.  
  
"Had one for the last eleven years. Zebra named Peter." She sighed once again and resumed the drumming of her finger, "No, we're not married, and we're not planning on getting married." Judy rolled her eyes slightly; of course everyone asked that all the time, "I get so tired of having to say that. Constantly with the same shit from both our families. When are you gonna this, and when will you tie the that, and just shoot me." The bunny opposite nodded sagely to each of those, "I don't need a paper certifying that I love him. I even call him my 'husband'. We're gonna be together for the rest of our lives, but in case we do decide to part, we don't have to get any lawyers involved. Just a cardboard box and some friendly terms to go on."  
  
"That's a lovely thing to hear, Trish." Judy commented and smiled, "What's him being a pianist got to do with anything, though?" She asked, and raised the mug to her lips, taking a sip. Continental breakfast tea with enough milk to kill a horse. Trisha and Clementine were a lot alike in more ways than one.   
  
"Good with his fingers." The tabby raised a paw and rolled her knuckles, giving a knowing little wink to punctuate her own point, "Peter is my soul-mate, through and through." Another brief pause ocurred, during which the two exchanged glances and sat comfortably; a perfectly nuanced and pleasant silence, without an ounce of discomfort. Something Judy hadn't felt in ages, "So, why did you come down here in the end? Not a social call. You know my policy." She did. Always call ahead. There was even a sign pasted to the door reading that. Not that anyone but Judy needed it.   
  
"Actually, I've wanted to ask you about the floor-plans to the building." This elicited a slight nod of surprise from the feline, "I've got to sneak into Bogo's office somehow, and the ventilation system is the best way to go about it. Can't do that blind, though. So I need the plans."  
  
"You've come to the right cat." Trish played with the empty mug for a moment and shot to her feet, "Follow me." They walked out of the exchange office, which Trish locked behind herself dilligently, twice too, and put up a magnetic sign promising that she'd be right back. Judy watched as her best friend pressed the elevator button over and over, and looked into the darkened window on the doors impatiently. She hid behind the tabby slightly and watched, lest anyone see her. If someone did come out of the elevator, she had ample time to hide, and a spot to do it in, too. Thankfully, the car arrived empty, and they boarded, heading for -2, the level below. Armoury, archival files, and miscellaneous maintenance. Trisha produced a keyring from her pocked and picked along it carefully. She paused on a small, bronze key.  
  
"Don't let the sign fool you, the archive contains next to nothing of use. Nobody goes there. Even the cold cases are kept elsewhere, usually scattered around the entire building." The feline muttered to herself as she unlocked the armoury, "Fucking macho-ass twats can't even clean up after themselves. Gods forbid they nick a claw on a box or two." The door opened with ease, and she leaned to the side, flicking a light switch. A promised land of guns and equipment appeared out of the darkness. In one corner, the standard-issue weapons for the department. Sleek and black, some new, and others covered in dents. Light machine guns mingled with shotguns, inter spaced by a parade of identical-looking assault rifles, all far too big for Judy. In the corner lay a smaller gun-rack, home to a pair of abandoned looking sub machine-guns. This was hers, special orders from the academy. Unloaded most likely. She did not like the gun when she fired it. Far too inaccurate to be of any use, with a rapid rate of fire and a heavy, but on the whole small magazine. Only twenty-five shots. It required religious maintenance as well. After all, it was a prototype, coined in some distant past for use with smaller members of law enforcement. Never was it meant for mass production. If she needed to use a firearm, Judy preferred her .38 Python. Manageable recoil and a generous six rounds of ammunition, given its stopping power. Plenty needed to drop a suspect in case he decided to do something unreasonable.   
  
Trish walked up to the rack, her tail swaying, and lifted one of the guns out, inspecting it, "Been a while since our SWAT unit did anything. They're just lounging in the ready room, swilling coffee and watching sports. I'm fairly certain that they'd end up getting shot in a real emergency." Judy nodded and followed, shutting the door with her foot on the way in, the echo of which produced a soft murmur in the distance; the range lay directly ahead. Ten dark corridors, with booths beside one another, all empty. In the far corner lay the riot gear the SWAT officers would wear in a combat situation, along with a whole host of different-sized bulletproof vests. A finger of dust sat on all of them, undisturbed for an eternity, just like Trisha suggested. Her feline companion flipped another switch and illuminated the range, setting the rifle down and picking a shotgun up instead. She brought the paper target closer, shaped like a rhino, and slid a twelve-gauge shell into the receiver, giving the weapon a cock by swinging it in one arm; tabby terminator, Judy thought, and laughed to herself, "These are my babies. No better way to de-stress after a long day than wasting government ammunition on paper targets." With that, she lifted the weapon and fired a volley into the target, which ended up shredded, the bottom part of it severed by a hail of metal pellets. Judy jumped at the shot. Trisha cocked the gun again and turned to Judy for dramatic effect, just as the steaming shell landed at her feet, "I can probably out-shoot half the department at this rate. None of them get any practice, except Thelonious. He's down here often, taking pot-shots with that hand cannon of his. Custom .50 action express. Useless in an actual fight, but holy fuck, is it ever a statement of raw power." She put the gun down, "That's enough of that, Oh, and, if you're wondering..." She looked at Judy, "Yes, he is compensating. Hard." The bunny laughed loudly as they walked past the range and towards a featureless door at the end of it, "Here we are." She unlocked the door with the same key and let the bunny in. Cardboard tubes lined the walls, and a plan lay propped up on the wall with duct tape, situated around a small, wooden table, "SWAT has access to every floor-plan in the city, in case they need it. Officially, they're supposed to be down here every morning, working out entry situations and such, but I'll let you guess how often they actually do that." The tabby reached for a tube in the far corner and passed it to Judy.   
  
"Is this it?" The bunny asked as she unscrewed the plastic cap and tugged the blueprint out, laying it against the table; Trisha gave a sage nod, "You're a life-saver, Trish."  
  
"Hey, may as well do this for my favourite bunny." She smiled, and raised a finger, "Do you have any way to get into the building?"   
  
"What do you mean?" Judy looked up from the plans; the vents connected perfectly. Working out a route would be trivial.   
  
"Grappling hooks and such." The feline raised her paw, "You'll also need night-vision goggles, rope, carabiners, and masks."   
  
"We don't have any of that. We're going in together, Nick and I. I thought he'd get that sorted, but we haven't really discussed this." This prompted Trisha to run out of the room, followed by sounds of rummaging. Judy tilted her head to the side. What was she looking for? In a flash, her associate was back, with an armful of equipment, with duplicates of everything, "Whoa, where'd you get this?"  
  
"Diamond heist about four years back. We took this as evidence initially, but after the case was closed, we added it to our inventory. You've got the whole shebang here." She waited for Judy to fold up the plans before lowering the entire lot down in one go; Trish began lifting objects up one after the other, "Some strong synthetic rope, a pair of quality pneumatic grappling hooks, two night-vision glasses, perfect for both of you size-wise, a whole fuckload of mountaineering gear, and a pair of suppressed handguns." Judy's eyes grew wider with each item, and she shook her head a bit.  
  
"But...I didn't even work anything out with Nick yet, as I said, and..." A paw landed on the table before her.   
  
"You've got an in, you've got me, your inside woman, helping you every step of the way, you've got the plans, and you've got enough gear here to stage a world-class robbery." A pair of smiles grew in the half-light of the room, "There's all the discussing you need. We've got a means of communication too." Trisha produced a pair of wireless earpieces from the mess, and one headset, attached to a black cube with plenty of dials on the front, "I'll be sitting in the basement, safe and snug, behind an armoured door that would take a bulldozer made of acid to get through, while you two break into Thelonious' office and unleash a shit-storm." An orange paw appeared before Judy's face, twisted into a fist, "Are you in, or are you fucking in?" Judy bumped her best friend's paw in an instant, and the two shared a pair of wide and profoundly jovial grins.   
  
"Thelonious Bogo, you'd best lock your office twice tonight." Judy picked up a gun from the table and cocked it theatrically, "Because we're about to fuck you up."


	11. Chapter 11

Between the moment you wake, and the moment you retire to sleep, everything can change. A thousand changes a second. Each motion of the cursor on a computer screen is made possible by thousands of microscopic switches in current. Every click we take for granted a complex system of cause and consequence. The motions of one's muscles powered by changes in protein structure, by cells reshaping themselves, stretching and collapsing to acclimate to the changes in the surroundings. Something as simple as lifting up a coffee mug takes on a different shape when the world is viewed in this way. Nothing exists in of itself, within itself, without affecting the system into which it is placed. One such system is sight. A fickle one to begin with, it easily falls prey to minuscule differences in the world around us, with the light, precise as it may be, turns twisted depending on what it is refracted through. Objects become wholly and entirely different simply by standing on another side of the room. And then there is the matter of the unseen; what dwells outside the gaps of our vision? Is the world in of itself an illusion, presenting itself coherently only when directly observed, or does life indeed continue unabated despite our best efforts to quell it by not seeing.  With conspiracies becoming increasingly bare before his eyes, Nick's mind ventured into this network, and began picking it apart. So many things he once saw as consequences of the natural hegemony of things lay warped and bent out of shape, affected by the uneven and menacing mist of subterfuge. Contravened laws become petty objects to be toyed with in the paws of the rich and powerful. Neutral thoughts of home and of the bliss that awaited him within Judy's arms that same evening lay replaced with unease and apprehension, even in a familiar environment. For as long as he had lived in Zootopia, Spooner avenue, having earned its name not by its width or some historical significance, but by a simple alteration in code, was the dullest thoroughfare in the city's heart. All others had an impeccable character to themselves. Something to set them apart from the rest. But if there was difference, there must've been a golden standard, where nothing deviates from anything, and where established norms and drab, dull, repeating sights reign supreme. That was Spooner Avenue. Utterly uninteresting in every possible way. Not even the offbeat architecture that permeated the vast majority of the inner city could serve to dissolve its unerring boredom. Gone were the twisting pillars, tall arches, and chromatic bends on otherwise mundane city walls, replaced with mere brick or bare white. This was the true face of it all, he thought; and there was absolutely nothing outstanding about it. The drive through Spooner was mercifully brief, and the uptake of the slope leading to the Burrows began soon after.  
  
The city had a character to itself. It drew in tourists from across the globe, flocking in by the thousands to witness sights, smells, and sounds the likes of which they had never seen before. The brochures told tall tales of cultures intersecting, sometimes at odds, but residing in colourful harmony. And they always arrived either by air or by sea, which gave them the best view of Zootopia possible, outside of the many inter-city railway lines leading to it. The builders of the city had a profound intent when constructing it. One of a mirage afloat upon the muddy waters of the two rivers which surrounded it. When viewed from outside, and from a certain distance, it was truly a sight to behold, rising out of the waters, a mountain of lighted glass and winding, shimmering pinnacles, diverse and beautiful, with the many millions of plants growing along the waterfront supplanting the vision with a tint of radiant green. But it was just that; a mirage. Rather than grow from a central hill, it descended into itself, with its edges rising up, only one tall enough to even call itself an incline of any sort; North Burrows. The illusion of the hillside was accomplished by building a dense network of skyscrapers in the business district, whose sequential nature only accentuated the effect. Nick often wondered whether visitors felt cheated once they arrived. What had they hoped to find? A network of ever-narrowing streets and byroads that wound towards some imagined peak in the centre? That would only serve to make the traffic even more nightmarish than it already was. Mingling with a thousand cars on a four-lane avenue was already bad enough. The fox chuckled to himself as he navigated the serpentines leading to his driveway deftly. I'd like to ask for a refund, please, he thought. The sight just wasn't majestic enough. On what grounds? On the grounds of not being awed enough. There was still some breath left in my lungs. False advertising. Nick smiled to himself. He stopped the car, took his bag from the passenger seat, and made for the door with a sigh. Clementine was most likely already gone. In the early days, she would take the time to wait for him to arrive, so that she and her children could eat together, but the more mundane her routine became, the less she cared about keeping up appearances, and most often the accepted procedure was one of cooking a meal, leaving it, and going back home, to sew in peace.  
  
He fumbled with the keys for a moment. His wife was oddly silent that day. Usually she'd pass the long hours on duty trawling Furbook and sending him various photographs or articles she found entertaining, and he'd always read them. They were few and far between, and provided a welcome moment of rest between editing article after article, until the day finally slipped away, and enough breaks had exchanged themselves to make it all bearable. The door swung open without protest. He stepped inside, and stretched, slamming the door with his heel.  
  
"Finally." The fox turned to the kitchen, and found three pairs of eyes staring back; Clementine, Judy, and a woman he had never seen before. An uneasy paw rose from his side and he gave a wave, "Oh, hello."  
  
"Nick, I'd like you to meet someone!" Judy exclaimed cheerfully. Perhaps a tad too cheerfully, he thought, and strode over, holding out a paw towards the unnamed feline. She shook it and gave a smile, "This is Trisha."  
  
"Pleasure to meet you, Trisha." He gave a polite smile and she returned it, and he looked to his mother, giving her a sideways glance of confusion. Clementine was not to be bothered by her son's lack of understanding, and she shrugged idly, going back to scrubbing a plate; classic, "So, what's the..." He paused, "Uh..." His mind had locked up. Nick noticed the pile of objects on the kitchen island only a few moment after having taken the scene in, and now his mouth hung open slightly. Climbing ropes, two grappling hooks, some additional climbing equipment, a pair of black balaclavas, one fox-sized, and one bunny-sized, and a pair of menacing, illegal-looking suppressed firearms, "Who are we robbing?"  
  
"I'm very glad you asked, Nick." Trish commented, and he glanced up sharply, taken aback slightly by her tone, which sounded fraternal to the point of unease, as if she had known him for ten years now and was just tasked with politely telling him that his goldfish died, "We're breaking into the police station." The tabby watched Nick's pupils widen with affable tranquillity, "Well, you two are. I'm gonna be in my bunker the whole time."  
  
"Uh-uh." Nick affirmed with a grunt and wandered over to the sofa, suddenly feeling somewhat light-headed; his arms crossed as soon as he found his footing, and his gaze turned from unwilling to interested; he once checked his chin for grey hairs, and having found one amidst the sea of orange from which it rose, spent the following year checking every corner of his and Judy's life for signs of old age. If there was one thing he feared beyond all others, it was becoming dull. Falling into the same routine with nothing exciting happening. A flat line from cradle to grave. This was his chance to prove that he wasn't a middle-aged washout with an utterly mundane decade or four ahead of himself. The rationalization was a quick one, and his fear turned to a form of acceptance. After all, as he had affirmed a number of times, lying awake at night, this was indeed a suicide pact, "We haven't done this for a long time now."  
  
"Two years isn't a long time at all." Judy chimed in and strode over to him, giving his arm a comforting half-hug, which settled with her standing at his side in an affectionate way. No need to butter me up, he thought and smiled from the corner of his lips, I'm already fully prepared to go through with this. But there was pleasure in seeing his wife go through the motions of convincing him to do something; the very same motions she had repeated a hundred times before, and would no doubt repeat another thousand times, and all of which he could tell apart from the rest in his sleep.  
  
"Yes, but two years of living a nine to five existence. I don't remember the last time I ran for more than ten minutes for any reason." He added, and Trisha gave a light chuckle, her eyes drifting down to his stomach. For one reason or another, Nick suddenly felt awfully self-conscious. He wondered whether the pitch-black khakis in the bottom drawer would still fit. A few pounds here, an extra cheeseburger there, and soon enough he had trouble slipping into his old boxer shorts, "Could be that the rope can't even hold me."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous." Trisha interjected again, and lifted the rope from the table to give it a demonstratively firm tug on either end, "This is high-quality shit. You could hoist an elephant up with this."  
  
"Look, I'm not saying I'm not gonna do it..." As soon as those words left his mouth, Judy looked up to him and gave a soft pout of her lips, playful more than anything, but still wanting, "I'm just asking whether or not we have a plan." The paw on his arm relented at once and his wife wandered to the kitchen island enthusiastically, producing an armful of drawings and notes, which she brought over, "This answers my question."  
  
"Shush, look at this." He leaned over and glanced across the page. Scribbles, detailing the positions of skylights on the roof of the station, and a series of bullet points on circumventing a magnetic locking system for the vent junction, "We've got the whole thing work out. We get in here..." She flipped one of the papers and motioned across a paw-drawn replica of a floor-plan, evidently designed to be compact, "Through here, a small climb down here, and that's where the grate is."  
  
"The grate to what?" Judy rolled her eyes at this slightly.  
  
"Bogo's office." Out of all those present, he least expected Clementine to pipe up, but she did, and gave a glance over her shoulder, "So you can get the evidence you need from his office computer." And that was all she said, perfectly flatly, followed closely by the sound of scrubbing and an utterance, "Fucking water stains."  
  
"You know about this?" He asked, and Clementine gave another distant nod, "Who...did you...why did you tell my mother that we're on the cusp of exposing a major conspiracy?" His paws sat before him, turned up in utter confusion, mirroring the expression on his face. Comforting strokes ran across his forearm; at least Judy knew how he'd feel about this whole thing in advance.  
  
"Because she was curious." Trisha added, and crossed her legs atop one another, having found a comfortable spot on one of the kitchen stools, "And hey, she's anything but old and frail. Some of the ideas were hers, actually."  
  
"Mother!"  
  
"Shush, Nicky. All the cops in the city being rotten is hardly news. Lived through worse." The older fox shuffled over and passed him a mug, "Made this for you earlier. It's cold now, but it'll help. Drink up."  
  
"Very polite of you indeed." He sipped the tea obediently, which seemed to please his mother, and mercifully return her to her usual post; he'd drink all the tea in the world if it meant that she wouldn't get in the way, "Anything else we need to do or can we just hit the road and call it a done deal?"  
  
"We're done with the plan, and now we just need to wait for nightfall." Judy motioned to the window and he gave a glance through it, the sun still sitting some distance above the horizon; his mother, a stranger, and his wife, all having a nice, homely tea party whilst waiting to commit a capital felony, "And go over it with you present, of course."  
  
"Guys, I think something's wrong with your toilet." A voice drifted in from the other side of the room, and Nick turned to its source; a zebra stood in the arch of the hall and fumbled with his belt. A zebra he was rather familiar with. His jaw slackened even further, and so did the paw with which he held the mug, which spilled some of the tea, but Judy had caught it in time, supporting it with a soft laugh, "You must be Nick."  
  
"Yes, yes I am." He swallowed. At the threshold of his living room stood a living legend. A walking titan of jazz music, one whose name was often heard spoken in hushed whispers and breaths brimming with reverence. Stewart 'Stripes' Pinkerton. If there ever was a creature that could turn the very atoms in the air to the purest, softest, gentlest jazz with nothing but his fingers, it was Pinkerton, "You're...you're..." He muttered.  
  
"I'm what?" Pinkerton strode over to Trisha and gave her a peck on the cheek, settling in at her side, one arm around her, and the other casually hooked into the belt of his trousers. His voice was deep and rattling, but also mellow and sweet, softly drifting through the air akin to some wholly otherworldly substance. Nick heard it before. He heard that very same voice thank the audience in a packed club, tone maintained at room temperature, cooly distant. Never did he think he could actually have a muzzle-to-muzzle conversation with the zebra behind the curtain.  
  
"No more discussing the toilet." She wagged a finger at him and gave a grin, "Behave."  
  
"My apologies." Another kiss landed on her cheek and the feline immediately turned to a mess of giggles, "You were saying, Mr. Wilde?"  
  
"You're Steward fucking Pinkerton. In my living room." Nick ascertained once more and felt a soft slap against his forearm as a result; the zebra merely glanced around himself, startled by the postulation, "Can I get an autograph?"  
  
"Oh, a jazz lover. Figures." Pinkerton laughed and grabbed a piece of paper off the counter, leaning over it for a moment as his elbow danced to the side, and he passed Nick the paper, folding it at the edge, "Enjoy. I can also sign any CDs if you'd like me to, but I'd better not see them on FurBay later." The zebra laughed at this, and gave a knowing wave to Trisha, "Not because I'd be offended. I don't care. Your signature now, dog." Nick gave a nod to this, but he had barely heard any of the words that left Pinkerton's mouth. Instead, he clung to that voice, and to the melodies which now invaded his ears, performed expertly, "It's a bad business decision. You'd get nothing."  
  
"I'm literally your biggest fan." The fox insisted, and Pinkerton turned to Judy.  
  
"If you had told me that he'd turn into a groupie the moment I walked through that door, I would've stayed in the bathroom." Judy gave a soft laugh, and looked up to her husband, expecting a similar reaction; instead, he just continued staring, "Could've lived for a week on the scented soaps alone."  
  
"Don't worry, he'll snap out of it soon." The bunny responded. She gave his forearm a soft pat, "I'm sure you two will have plenty to talk about."  
  
Just as Judy had predicted, the shock subsided quickly, and upon reassuring Nick that there would be plenty of time for him to pester his favourite artist, the group hunched over the plans. Initially, the zebra's purpose was somewhat obscured, but it was soon revealed that they were lacking a driver, and trying to start their car whilst simultaneously scrambling away from the station security cameras was less than preferable. So Trisha made one phone call, asked for a favour, and there he was, ready to commit a felony at the drop of a hat. The relation between himself and the tabby was explained in a swift furore of words, barely three well-rehearsed sentences, and Nick gave a nod. They were a couple. If Judy had told him that her co-worker was in a relationship with one of the greatest living musicians in the world, he wouldn't have believed her for a second; more than likely she'd get the name wrong or something, but the proof was in front of him right now, drumming his four broad-nailed fingers across the counter-top and calmly complimenting Clementine on her choice of tea. In one afternoon, everything that he thought was a tightly-kept secret was in the open, and exchanged between three of the most unlikely characters he'd ever think would be involved with it, least of all his own mother. For a woman her age, she was truly taking the news well, in a remarkable sort of daily stride. If the world exploded around her, Nick mused as she poured them all another mug of tea, passing the kettle around the living room sitting area, her main concern would be the absence of her usual bus line. A conversation began quickly amongst all four of them, with Clementine slithering away in the background, and the lines were drawn. While initially captivated by Pinkerton's presence, Nick found the zebra to be less than talkative regarding the topic of his work, most likely due to all the attention he received over it on a daily basis, so he turned to Trish for company instead, leaving his wife to tend to their fourth guest. The tabby captivated him immediately. Something about the way she approached each topic with ease, unafraid of venturing into territory others may consider best left unspoken, simply left him riveted. It reminded him strongly of the way Judy talked initially. During the early days of their marriage, when all was laid bare, and their lives had become intertwined in the extreme, the bunny would often hide pieces of her personality away, while giving others an undue sort of presence in their daily conversations. Trisha's fast-paced diatribes on politics often mingled with nervous gestures and the odd sniff. She did not appear comfortable in her own skin. Nick understood, and his nods were partly in response to what she was saying, and partly a way of letting her know that he understood.  
  
In time, Clementine bode her farewells, having decided that she cleaned enough to leave the house passable for another day or two, and took to the road, giving the group an idle wave, and requesting the presence of her son at the doorstep before departing, to let him know that she loves him and that he should take care of him, as she usually did, but with a note of nervousness in her tone. That was a trait he hadn't seen in his mother in a very long time. Clementine Wilde was a remarkably composed woman, and to her, showing any emotions besides quiet derision or love for family life was cause for suspicion. Withdrawn and quiet, the old woman gave up such pieces of information only when she sensed impending danger, and given what was revealed to her, Nick understood, promising that they would be fine. The door closed behind him, and he turned, looking to the living area. The broad, dusty windows gave him a stunning view of the city on the cusp of the sunset, with the light reflecting off each of the city's myriad windows, and shining starkly against the far wall, drifting down quicker now, almost too quickly. Soon they would be packed into their sub-compact. Driving into the city, a double date; only one that featured rope and suppressed firearms. He sat back down. Judy took her place beside him almost immediately, and passed him a mug of tea, her paws scaling his right forearm comfortingly. She noticed. Pinkerton gave a nod and crossed his legs, eyes turned to the window, looking away only when Trish sat on the floor beside him, crossing her legs and cradling her mug in her paws. Silence descended fully. No-one said a word. There was nothing left to say. It was a precious moment of stillness in a world of turmoil. The roaring tempest crawled into Nick's veins, ate at him from within, and no amount of good humour or spirited remarks about this or that could calm his mind. This may very well be the end, he thought, and tasted the tea again. They may very well end up being caught. He closed his eyes for a moment and thought back, to some imagined past he had never seen. They were doing this for the sake of Pancontinentia. For the sake of a country looking to recall its history. Engulfing the entire continent, the past of their flourishing nation was vast and storied, spanning many individual spots of darkness, but also of light, of radiance.  
  
Their world was one of parliaments and elections, of venture capitalism turned vicious, to bite at the edges. Competition. Kill or be killed. Throat-slitting business practices where the labourer became of secondary concern. For every gold-studded executive, there were a thousand starving children, cast off in some distant corner of the globe, forgotten, offshoots of their nation's desire to forever expand and grow, never to reach a theoretical limit. Nick shuddered beneath his wife's gentle strokes, and she glanced upwards, with a half-scowl of concern, which he dissolved with a kiss on the forehead. He was not alone in finding the nature of their world to be horrifying. Who held the threads anymore? In whose paws lay the strings of their destinies? Leaders elected, but not serving the people; serving themselves. Bogo was a product of this. The need for change could breed both horror and beauty. And no matter how much Judy insisted that there was justice, and that it must be served, he felt that to be naive. Blind faith. Do not question. Rationality and reason simply led to a lifetime of scepticism towards every decision brought about by those in command. And yet, the animals of Pancontinentia were far from asleep. With unity came a price; the price of remembrance. They had one parliament, situated in the capital. The Marble Gates. He had only seen the structure once, on an errant visit to Centralia, and was awed by its raw power. This had been the seat of royalty and revolution alike. For hundreds of years, each new power that emerged from the darkness of usurpation, uprising, and democratic reform dwelt within its walls. At its core lay the old structure, worn by age and violence, drenched in blood, and enveloped by a glass carapace. Here the councils met every Monday morning, to deliberate on matters of life and death. To them it must seem mundane. With a nudge of a paw, lives could be torn down just as easily as they could be built. Unity. A continent reunited. Differences settled once and for all.  
  
It had not always been like this. Remembrance. The war. The great cleansing. Unspeakable atrocities committed for the sake of an "unburdened" nation. And thus came the weekly meetings. Some considered said meetings to be a waste of tax money, but Nick knew better. He knew of his own history just as well as the history of their world. Two opposing sides still clashed. There was a great schism between the political sides in Pancontinentia and they squabbled over the most petty of decisions, but thankfully, the most major reforms had been passed long ago, in the aftermath of the war, and neither side felt like reopening those pages of history to make amends towards their own party goals. In a way, he was thankful for the guilt they felt, but he knew that guilt as such was a finite resource. Sooner or later, it would expire. It would slowly vanish into nothing and once more, the reforms would be changed, their purpose in time and history forgotten, and their place given up to house new memories and tendencies. On paper, their country was a rule of the people. In the early days, it was a meritocracy, and it had become a perverted one as time went on. Those in power sought to redefine merit and achievement to fit their own goals and fall in line with that which they sought to protect. He despised it. Nick looked to the side, and to Judy. This was the justice she was protecting. A dissident having married an enforcer. He kissed her.  
  
"What was that for?" She asked, glancing up after a prolonged silence, and he shrugged a bit; she knew the story, "Well, then here you go." And she kissed him back. There was no point in dwelling on the histories of dead states. What good would the ghosts of Appalachia do to a world which actively strove towards forgetting its own origins? The sun had set fully. In half an hour, the night shift would begin, and the main building of the ZPD's central precinct would go dark. It was time. With a nod directed to Pinkerton, Nick stood to his feet, and everyone else followed. They collected the equipment wordlessly, dividing it between one another based on weight, and Judy snuck out for just a moment, pulling Nick with herself, to get dressed for the caper.  
  
"What's going on with you?" She asked, sitting nude on the bed as he rifled through their possessions. He gave a shrug as his paws tugged on a black turtle-neck, and he held it in front of himself before the mirror. While his waist had expanded somewhat in the last two years, fitting into it wouldn't be a problem, "Nick?"  
  
"Hm?" He looked to her and draped the turtle-neck over his shoulder, "Nothing's going on with me. I'm fine."  
  
"Honey, your favourite musician was sitting across from you and you gave up as soon as he said that he didn't want to talk. You didn't even push him at all. I had my elbow ready and everything." The bunny crossed her arms and legs at the same time, and leaned forward a slight bit. He watched the way her gaze shifted from one invisible point on the ground to the other as she explained herself, "Something is wrong, and I can tell. What did Clementine tell you before she left?"  
  
"The usual. That she loves us and that she wants us to take care of ourselves." He turned around again and pulled the turtle-neck over his head. It was the slightest bit tight around his waist but Nick didn't mind. After all, it would stretch the more he moved whilst wearing it. He exhaled, "I was just thinking about all of this."  
  
"About the break-in?" She asked, and he shook his head slightly.  
  
"About the very real possibility that this could be the end of the road." Although he could not see her from where he stood, he could hear her stand up and walk up behind him, her arms embracing him, loosely at first, but more passionately later, "As selfish as this sounds, I don't want to die." A small, grey paw reached out from underneath his curled-up elbow and turned the closet mirror. A fox and a bunny. She peered at him from the side, looking up into his eyes by means of reflection. He gave a tender smile in response, which she returned, and followed up with a nuzzle to his side.  
  
"We're going to be okay, Nick. I promise." She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek; Judy looked enchanting. Her whole form was outlined by the simple, bare bulb above their heads, burning brightly, a second, caged sun to keep the road lit when the first disappeared behind the horizon, "No matter what, we're going to get out of this." That was a lie and he knew it, but he did not mind. It felt better to keep the truth suspended like this, unsaid, so that they may take refuge in their own imaginations of the future, "And we'll have done something incredible in the process." He turned to face her, and she looked up at him, mouth cracked into the gentlest crescent beam he had ever seen.  
  
"Just two weeks ago you were telling me how you're a failure, how you didn't think you could do this, and I had to reassure you." He stated, and her gaze shifted away a bit, but his curled fingers were there, ready to turn her chin back towards him, giving her head a passionate little push, "And you had all these fears of being inadequate. But now you're reassuring me." She nodded, "Do you know why?" She shook her head, "Because you were strong enough to push back the darkness. And you're strong enough now to pick yourself back up and enact change. Proper change."  
  
"If I'm strong, you're..." She began, and he cut her off with a soft kiss on the lips, "You lived on the streets, Nick."  
  
"So I did. But for all that, I came out of it not knowing anything about what's right and wrong." They drew ever closer to one another, until the side of her head found that arch between his chest and his shoulder where it rested most comfortably, "To pick apart the bullshit and find out what really needs to be done rather than just bitch about it is the sort of strength I'll never have. And it all came from a girl that grew up on a farm." He sighed a bit, giving a pause to kiss her ear, and nuzzle into her fur; they could wait a little bit more, "You complete me, Judy. You're the ying to my yang. The darkness to my light. You're the air in my sails, the-" He felt a finger on his lips, raised from beneath.  
  
"Don't ruin the moment by pushing it, Wilde." She commented, and laughed softly, his own chuckle drifting into her ears; they sank into another warm silence, "Trisha is gonna come in here and kill us if we don't hurry up." Nick nodded, "Which is a shame because..." He felt her knee move up the side of his leg, and she stood on her toes once more, burying her nose in the fur below his ear, to whisper into it, "I'm just about ready to do what bunnies are really good at."  
  
"And w-what are bunnies good at..?" He asked unsteadily, already knowing the answer, cheeks flushing rather immodestly.  
  
"Multiplying."

* * *

Four grown animals get into a sub-compact with a pair of grappling hooks. Judy smiled as Pinkerton put the car into drive. It was like the start of a bad joke. They sat in the back now, clad in a monolithic black that blended in flawlessly with the view out of the rear window. The zebra deftly switched from one blinker to another in a tight serpentine. They opted for this switch of places after Pinkerton attempted to get in the back seat and found himself far too corpulent of a creature to fit. Rain had begun drizzling as soon as they entered the vehicle, and the closer they got to the city, the more torrential the rainfall became. The noise of it drumming against the windows overshadowed all else, and as she turned to Nick, Judy felt a strange impulse come over her. For the next two hours they would risk life and limb in pursuit of justice. She may as well enjoy the last few minutes of the ride with him. Given the cramped nature of the back seat, they had very little space to begin with, so they kept the majority of their equipment in their laps. She reached for his pile and mixed it with hers, much to his surprise, and having put it into the footwell on her side, she lay across his lap, eyes looking up into his and giving a content beam. If she were capable of it, she would purr, but she settled for a muted coo in response to his fingers finding her ears; she loved it when he did that. The delicate nature of his touch, as light as the air itself but still distinctly present, felt utterly disarming when placed against her long, soft earlobes. His own eyes lay fixed at some point outside of the window. Traffic grew thicker the closer they came to the city centre. At this point, if she were to close her eyes, Judy could recount each bend with ease. Each turn had a distinct pull to itself, depending on the severity, and the motions felt familiarly comfortable. Just pretend you're on your way to a late shift. Thoughts of work turned to thoughts of the job. Wet work, they called it; it was a criminal code-word for operations such as these, most involving well-executed and meticulously planned heists. The bunny's profession consisted of thwarting such attempts, not actively participating in them. The thought amused her slightly. Rouge agent, she recalled. A game Nick had recently bought. Some asinine shooter set in a post-apocalyptic version of Centralia. He loved it. To her it just seemed repetitive. Judy wasn't an avid gamer herself, or at least not as avid as she used to be. One particular RPG had ruined her life not too long ago, and she vowed to not spend as much time in front of the console. So she relegated herself to providing commentary, references, and at times, distracting sexual acts while he played. The bunny opened her eyes and looked up at him. Perhaps he was secretly conditioning her. Given enough time, Judy would begin to associate video games with foreplay, and before long he'd be carrying her into the bedroom every time he booted up the console. She leaned up and kissed the underside of his muzzle. The car stopped suddenly and without warning, which made Judy sit up slightly. There was a pang of disappointment in her chest. The lights on the ceiling of the car were just becoming interesting.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at our destination." Pinkerton exclaimed, but no-one laughed at the joke, "You two get on it. Get your equipment together and climb on top of the building adjacent."  
  
Before they had left, they arranged for an entry method. An older section of the station had prominent skylights. This was their entry point. Ill-maintained and often left open, they led into a small store-room on the third floor, incidentally located directly beside maintenance. An entire second station existed within the first, but smaller. Tiny, narrow hallways providing access to key installations, from water pipes to electrical wiring, and used by the unseen engineers to maintain the building. Most of these halls ran beneath the actual floor, some not even connecting as their job was merely exposing a particular section of the installations. But the main junction did have a connection to the ventilation system, which is where they were headed. Bogo had done the smart thing during renovations on the station and requested that his office be exempt from this network of tunnels, but even grand conspirators and revolutionaries needed air, Judy thought. Thus the ventilation was untouched. The carabiner clipped perfectly into the harness she wore on her shoulders, and she gave Nick an exaggerated thumbs up after applying hers, and he did the same, in an almost synchronized manner. Trisha leaned towards Pinkerton and kissed him briefly on the cheek, to which he turned more and trapped her lips in his. They exchanged a brief pair of words and she walked out. Twenty minutes between her getting into the office, locking the door, and arming herself, and them actually getting into the building. A swipe card would suffice. Trisha had already explained this. Bogo would never suspect her. He thought her loyal to his movement. Blind to enemies from within, the tabby explained, and claimed that she often came in late, to sort through some of his more rambling paperwork. She was the one that proof-read his manifesto. Her orange form vanished into the structure.  
  
"We're ready to go." Judy said as she tapped Pinkerton's shoulder and he nodded, "You wait here."  
  
"That's the job description, lady." He affirmed and gave a hoarse laugh, "Not much else for me to do."  
  
Nick pushed the seat forward and climbed out of the passenger-side door, carrying half of their equipment. Judy followed with the other half. The rain outside had stopped completely, but left their surroundings shimmering with moisture, and the pavement slipped out from beneath her nearly. Almost no-one in Zootopia wore shoes. It was a widely accepted form of wisdom. Most animals did not need them and donned them solely for formal events. Both of their soles were protected by a thin layer of fabric, hooking out from her trousers, to provide a gripping surface. But it made manoeuvring on anything wet difficult. The plan was simple. Across from the station sat an old factory, disused on every floor expect the lowest one, where a nightclub resided. Several pieces of it were jutting out from the main edifice, almost bridging the gap between itself and the older section of the station. Twenty feet of comfortable space. A pair of grappling hooks should have little to no trouble getting them across. Neither husband nor wife said anything as they scaled the fire escape. It creaked beneath them, and she could see the very slightest presence of a sort of nervousness in his step; don't let it give way, his pace said. But it didn't. They were on the top quickly. A flat, empty surface pock-marked with puddles and trash, stretching from one end of the roof to the other, and with a small barrier around the very edge. The wind grew stronger the closer they got to the top, and had now become a savage gale, but it came in brief bursts.  
  
"Ready?" He asked, and she affirmed with a nod; this was his area of expertise. Nick had forfeited his night vision goggles for his natural ability to see in the dark, but Judy took the pair intended for her, and wore it proudly on her head. A strange device, with four viewfinders, and a rather tight strap, but she would need to wear it for a mercifully brief amount of time. Nick looked across the opposing roof, "There. That works." He pointed and she slid the goggles down. They whirred to life with a satisfying, tinny beep, and the darkness around her vanished. Everything lay covered in a bright green of sorts, and nearby light sources, such as street lamps and neon signs, became vast oceans of brightness she could not bear to look at. He was pointing at a heating chimney. Judy raised the grappling hook. Its four prongs would have no trouble connecting. She steadied herself, and depressed the trigger. With a hiss of compressed air, the hook rocketed outwards and took a sharp turn to the left, just where she had aimed it, striking the edge of the vent with one of the prongs before obediently wrapping itself around it. With a push of the button, more rope spooled out, and she fixed it to a similar vent on their side. One tug confirmed it. The rope was steady. The duo walked to the edge. It was a dizzying fall down, but a short distance across. Nick swallowed, "After you."  
  
"My knight in shining armour." She clipped her harness to the rope. One push of her feet against the edge, and she rolled across easily. A smooth ride ensued, almost pleasant in its own right, what with the way the city slipped away around her, and she got off the rope easily. Judy pulled the goggles down again and watched her brave fox struggle with his own harness. Sure enough, he managed, and followed across without issue.  
  
"I'm never doing that again." He exclaimed on the other side, and despite the lack of problems on the way, Nick appeared shaken; Judy knew why. Her husband was unafraid of most things in life. Save for spiders, heights, and being buried alive, "Let's go."  
  
The skylight opened with ease. Judy went in first, and moments before jumping, she could hear Nick fumbling with the holster for his gun. Just in case there was someone down there. The room was completely dark and empty. Her feet barely made a whispered thud as she touched down. Through the green tint of the night vision, she could see a row of barren shelves, discarded cleaning equipment, and a pair of broken chairs. Nothing else. Nick followed, far less gracefully, practically falling in, but still catching himself on his feet. Judy stifled a laugh while he struggled to get himself upright again, body swaying to and fro, attempting to recapture some sense of balance.  
  
"I'd be a fucking amazing stunt-man, for your information." He insisted, and dusted himself off. One of his paws moved to his ear and he clicked the communicator button. It buzzed to life. Judy did the same.  
  
"Finally." A voice came in from the other side, with the low transmission quality doing nothing to mask the tabby's pretend irritation, "Been sitting here nice and snug for half an hour now."  
  
"Hi to you too, Trish." Judy responded with a smile, "Where do we go from here?" The bunny looked around the room and towards the door.  
  
"The maintenance hatch is located in the first room to the left. Can't miss it." Nick nodded obligingly. The hallway was empty. To their left lay the aforementioned door, marked clearly as maintenance. They went for it, but found it to be locked; a small, green keypad glowed in the dark. "Pass-code is zero, zero, zero..." A pause, during which Nick and Judy exchanged bemused glances, "Zero."  
  
"Creative." Nick dialled the button four times, "I like your janitor. He's my kind of guy." Sure enough, the door popped open, revealing a simple hatch in the floor and nothing else, except a faded old pin-up on the wall, "Oh, and that's where he keeps his porn, too. Two birds with one stone."  
  
"Shush." She gave the back of his head a soft smack and turned the valve on the hatch, which sent the dead-bolts spooling back, and he observed from above, ogling the slender, nude gazelle on the poster whilst her attention was elsewhere, "Okay, here we go." The act of opening the hatch also lit the red safety lights which lined the passageway's edges.  
  
"Yo, Trish, can I close the door?" He asked.  
  
"Yep, go right ahead. The key is taped to the inside of it, according to a note on the map." The fox checked, and found the small, brass instrument to be firmly contained within a clear-tape prison. He descended a rung into the tunnel and let the door close itself. The walls were well and truly narrow, barely wide enough for him to fit facing towards the far side of it. Judy encountered a similar problem, but they continued regardless, having to pull their chests in every now and again due to the jutting lights.  
  
"By Geia, is your janitor a gerbil?"  
  
"Hamster, actually. And there's more than one." Trisha responded, "They keep the whole inner workings of the station in tip-top shape while the rest of us go about our day. You hardly even notice it."  
  
"Sheesh, these halls must be like a cathedral to them." Nick continued, and Judy nodded; they rapidly approached a corner, splitting into two at a right angle, "Which one do we take?"  
  
"Left, then right, then left. No worries, I'll repeat myself if you ask." The air was heavy with moisture. It tasted almost bitter on Judy's tongue. Metallic and stale. But it also moved. A breeze whistled around them, giving pained groans and creaks with each crack through which it seeped, cold against the bunny's ankles. Drops of condensate hung from the covered wiring that spanned the walls, and she grinned to herself. They were close now. Another junction. Right, and on the next one, left.  
  
"Well, this sure as shit beats sitting at home and playing The Division." Nick remarked, one paw in front of himself and one behind, with his shoulders at an angle to make himself as small as possible.  
  
"Speak for yourself, I am home." Trisha chimed in on the frequency again, "Tea, cigarettes, guns, and a heist unfolding right above my head. What more could a cat ask for?"  
  
"Glad to see at least one of us is enjoying this." The fox retorted with a smirk.  
  
"Two of us." Judy added; even though he wasn't showing it outwardly, always mantaining his appearance of the cool, collected fox, the bunny knew that he was having a blast. After all, his eyes went wide the moment they stepped into the tunnels. Being adventurous and sarcastic at the same time must be so tiring, she thought; how does he do it? But she had seen his enthusiastic side a number of times, and while it was pleasing, his usual, distant demeanour pleased her far more. After all, it made those moment just that much sweeter. They reached the final junction, but found themselves short of walking space. It cut off in front of a sizeable grate, "This must be it."  
  
"No, really?" He said and chuckled, pointing behind himself, "That's just a decoy. Real thing is over there." Even though he could not see it, Nick was certain that his wife had rolled her eyes. Instead of responding, she knelt and took out a screwdriver, with which she slowly unscrewed the four bolts that kept the grate in place. One turn sufficed. They were double-sided bolts, too, meaning that closing them was as simple as popping them back into place.  
  
"Now you go down until you reach the main ventilation shaft. From there, you've got about five hundred feet of piping to crawl through. Lots of turns." The duo exchanged another set of glances as the silence set in, "Okay, I've got the correct plans out. I'll give you each as you come across them. First junction is...left."  
  
"Gotcha." Before the tabby even finished her sentence, Judy was sliding along the edges of the vent with ease, slowing her descent by keeping all four of her limbs outstretched, which allowed her to descend mutely, the only sound that followed her being the squeak of her paw-pads against the tin, "Onwards and upwards."  
  
"Should've married someone less enthusiastic." Nick remarked from above, whispering, but the headset transmitting his words perfectly, "You'd best duck, I'm coming down." She slipped into the left passage and waited. Those words were followed by a soft squeal, and a quiet, muttered utterance of the word 'fuck'. She glanced up a little bit, "Okay, here we go." With that, the entire ventilation shaft turned into a series of immense bangs and wallops, followed by a final, deep one, rattling off into nothingness. Before the bunny's eyes lay a pile of orange fur, flat on its face, and groaning slightly. Trisha was choking from laughter on the radio. Judy herself stifled a laugh by clasping a swift paw over her face, "Oh...fiddlesticks." This sent the tabby into hysterics, and she muted herself for the moment, with Judy trying her best not to follow suit. A pang of concern floated up inside of her. What if he broke something? But those thoughts lay dispelled a moment later. He lifted himself up, shook his head a bit, and dusted his shoulder off, "Yeah, laugh it up. That actually hurt."  
  
"Could anyone have heard that?" Judy asked, and recieved no answer; posing the same question again did the trick.  
  
"This vent is above street level, on a windowless wall. No-one heard that except maybe some random passer-by, who must be very confused at this point." A brief pause followed by a rap of her finger against the paper, "Yep, just a dead-end pipe. You're good." Judy turned around, giving Nick a parting smile, and began crawling forward on all fours. The fox followed behind her.  
  
"I've got the best view in the house." He remarked, eyes fixed on his wife's shapely rump, accentuated further by the sheer nature of the tights she was wearing, and his eyes followed her puffy tail. In response he received a swift kick to the shoulder, "Ow!"  
  
"Was he staring at your butt?" Trisha asked over the radio.  
  
"He was staring at my butt."  
  
"Justified. I'll allow it." A few vents lay in their path, positioned over the darkened offices of the day shift, and they climbed over each precariously, careful to not accidentally open one. The row terminated briefly as it encountered a wall and then continued, "You're above the vehicle department now. Take the next right."  
  
The vents stretched into the distance, and Judy took a moment at each junction to see just how far into the darkness they extended. Soon, all the lights were gone, and she turned to the goggles for assistance again. They gave off a small light of their own, but barely visible on the whole. About halfway trough the system, Nick observed how she looked like an alien wearing it, and she chuckled softly to herself; the bunny had taken no offense to his earlier remark about her bottom, but she felt that the kick was a gentle reminder of who the police officer in the relationship was. The vents were rather loud. There was a constant howl of air as it screeched its way through the maze, but it dulled above each individual vent. The pipes seemed to stretch into eternity. At one point they arrived at a slightly wider vent, which Trisha informed them of earlier, and found that it truly did extend into nothing at all. Some hit a wall before being able to hit the darkness, but this one was vast, and spanning the entire length of the building, and the shine of the metal eventually died off completely, leaving behind an unsettling void which, when viewed from the right angle, almost threatened to swallow them up. They came up to a ladder. Small, metal rungs, barely a finger thick, and closely-spaced, designed specifically for the more acrobatic examples of the hamster species. Neither of them had any trouble descending, and for once, Nick didn't fall, commenting how grateful he was for the generosity of someone in the engineering. First floor. This is where she worked. Even in the vents, the familiar scent of officers at work inflitrated her nostrils. Remnants of endless days put in protecting the city and its inhabitants. They were close. Two more vents and they'd be there. Then it was a simple matter of descending into the hall, opening Bogo's office, and getting what they came for. Eventually, lights appeared from beneath, and Judy turned off the goggles.  
  
"Is his office locked?" Nick asked, and Trish responded in the affirmative, "Is there a key?"  
  
"Potted plant in the corner. That's where he usually keeps it." Trisha laughed weakly over the radio, "For a revolutionary, he sure doesn't care much about his own security." Judy winced slightly at the stipulation; of course he didn't; Thelonious Bogo was the most powerful man in the city. There was very little chance of someone coming after him. But he hadn't counted on a bull-headed bunny and her unwaveringly supportive husband. The vent was the same as any other, but the moment she saw it, she knew that it was the one she observed earlier; Judy replayed the scene of her breaking the vent open and climbing down many times in her memory, but she hadn't actually considered what it would feel like. Mere moments before she pressed the screwdriver into the grooves of the first screw, she heard voices, and froze. Nick began whispering behind her but she nudged him with her heel, and he quieted down immediately.  
  
"...the usual procedure, boys." A deep, commanding bass, followed by the sounds of a door opening, and at least four pairs of footsteps, "Have a good night. I'll see you tomorrow." Judy observed Bogo from above. His egress was succeed by a parade of three armed guards, toting menacing-looking rifles and tactical harnesses, but over their regular police uniforms. He himself was clad in civillian clothes at first glance, but a closer look revealed it to be a tactical shirt, the sort issued by the military for purposes of wearing beneath armour. This one was different, though. Rather than green or brown, the pattern was a mixture of red, white, and black, along with a series of digitized spots. She narrowed her eyes slightly. Judy was trained in recognizing the various camouflage patterns used by the allies and enemies of Pancontinentia alike, and no matter how hard she tried to recall those lectures, she could not identify the one Bogo was wearing. His trousers were plain black, and told of nothing else. Just as he was about to walk out of the hall, he stopped, and turned in place, towards what she assumed to be the three guards from earlier, "One, you're on duty on the walkway. Two, you've got the other side. Three, you take care of the rear offices. No lights." He raised his hand above his head and made a fist, banging it against his chest once, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori!"  
  
"Nam patres et sanguine!" The three men shouted back, and he turned, walking away with great pride; there was a sort of swagger in his step almost, and the way he wove his fingers behind his back told of a great general on the cusp of fighting a war. The three guards dispersed, saying nothing, and Judy watched the two of them make for the walkway. Silence descended upon everything. She watched a drop of sweat loose itself from her forehead and strike one of the partitions in the grate, splitting in two and sliding off the sides harmlessly. A pair of relieved breaths echoed through the vents.  
  
"That's Latin in case you were wondering." Trisha's voice tore Judy from her thoughts, "He says 'it is sweet and glorious to die for one's own country', and they respond with 'for blood and fathers'. Oh, and don't worry, he stole that first line from Horace, and the second is a rather terrible translation of an asinine statement." Another pause gave rise to a pulsating sensation in Judy's head, beating against the doors of her consciousness, spurred further by the burning sensation which began surrounding her left eye; this was the first time she had seen him off-duty since the assault, "The guards won't be a problem. They go to sleep immediately, or just amuse themselves with something else. None of them actually observe or patrol anything."  
  
"Glad to hear that." Nick added. Judy went to work on the screws. They retreated easily, like all others, "I'll drop a rope for you as soon as you're ready and we'll get out of here. I'll keep the vent in place until then." He whispered and she nodded. The bunny lowered herself into the opening and hung onto the edge, looking into her husband's eyes, "Please be careful."  
  
She pulled herself up a bit and pecked his lips, "I promise nothing."  
  
With that, she touched down on the tile floor, as lightly as she had done during their entry. Not a strand of fur out of place. The potted plant on the corner, the very same she had interacted with twice, held the key.  
  
"It's wedged between the bushy branches in the middle." Trisha said, as if on cue, and Judy reached in. There it was, cold against her fingers, and shining menacingly in the half-light of the hall. The main atrium was illuminated for the night, but the rear offices and the hall had their lights off. This gave the entire space an almost unearthly appearance. Not unlike a set of catacombs. Combined with the perfect stillness of the building, and the tall, massive ceiling of the atrium, it truly took on the atmosphere of an ossuary. The door unlocked easily, and she turned the key slowly, so as to not make a sound. Hopefully it wouldn't creak. It didn't. And there it was. Bathed in darkness, the office where Bogo had assaulted her. She took a step forward. Dread crept up her spine. The strands of her fur stood on end, and she could feel her breaths becoming more laboured and difficult. One week until the protective assembly on the bridge of her nose would be removed, consisting of a simple line of tape that kept her cartilage in a fixed position, and the cotton in her nose. Now it weighed on her like a brick. Her chest would rise over and over, with sharp breaths spilling across her lips. The closer she walked to the table, the more vivid the memories became. In the corner, a badly-patched indentation in the drywall, where her head had met the paint, and the wood beneath. And on the edge of the carpet, two or three crimson drops, erased as best he could manage, but still slightly visible. Justice marred. Stepped, on destroyed, unwound, desecrated. Now she was back to haunt him. This was the nucleus of it all. The diseased, rotten core of the entire city, consisting of a mahogany desk, a plain office chair, and a series of filing cabinets. If someone had asked her what the heart of darkness looked like weeks before, she would've answered in a more ominous way. Nick was right. Crime these days took place in spaces like these, behind well-buttoned suits and stiff expressions.  
  
She strode around the desk on her toes and made for the computer. Simple and black, a square monitor inhabited the middle of the surface, complemented by a plain keyboard and mouse. One photograph on the edge of the desk; Bogo and Lionheart, shaking paws during the ceremony where he was given the key to the city. The mayor that fell into the clutches of evil. Despite no-one having said it, there was sufficient evidence that they were co-conspirators. It only made sense. If Bogo could affect any decision in the city, any election, he would naturally seek to put one of his own men in charge, into office, and he succeeded. Their smiles made her shudder. Two men that held the destinies of millions and had taken it upon themselves to toy with them. To command souls into line, into rank and file. She reached into her pocket and produced the plain black key. For a moment, but only a brief one, Judy observed it as it rested in the palm of her paw. Just like the nucleus, she thought the key would somehow be more ceremonial in nature, perhaps ornate too. But no. Plain, black, and sleek. To the point. No time wasted. She switched the workstation on. The seal of the ZPD hung above the log-in screen, and it offered a selection of username and password, but she knew better. Typing in anything could set off an alarm. She looked about herself. In an empty nook by the base of the table sat the computer, whirring away obediently, unaware that it was no longer serving the same master. Judy slid the USB into one of the ports and watched as a biometrics scanner on the table, one she hadn't noticed before, lit up. It was a simple black square when inactive, but now the hoof-print of a bovine digit glowed on it; hooves, just like paw-pads, were unique. Their grooves were as individual as the shapes of one's face. It faded from a deep red to a green, and gave a beep of confirmation, quiet enough to not be heard by anyone outside of the room. There it was. Laid bare, the entirety of Bogo's plans. The first thing she noticed was the desktop wallpaper. Gone was the seal of the ZPD, replaced by a plain, black circle with a wolf's face in the middle. Around it lay Latin words, the same ones she had heard spoken earlier, the first phrase on the bottom, and the second on the top. Beneath this assembly sat a title: Order of the New Dawn. Shivers ran up and down her back more strongly now, coursing akin to some river, as if she had just gripped a live wire, and she took a deep breath. Reaching into her other pocket, Judy retrieved a small, compact hard disk, with a cable attached, and placed it into the computer's slot. A small dialogue came up. 'Back up everything?' it asked, followed shortly by a three symbols, forming a 'y/n' prompt. Her index finger hung above the y key for a moment, and she pushed it slowly. The window changed, and instead showed a green progress bar, which filled steadily and quickly. Beneath it flashed an estimate of how long it would take: four minutes. Judy rose from the chair. She was already here. She may as well go through her file.  
  
It was in the first filing cabinet to the left, labelled 'personnel'. One glance revealed what she feared. This was her official file. The rest was kept off-record and far from prying paws by Thelonious. Naturally he would never let anyone go through his personal musings on his colleagues, and it showed. But Judy leafed through it regardless. Rather thin and barely informative, it showed her photograph on the front page, standing in front of a tape measure which showed her height, and smiling brightly at the camera. Judy could still recall that day well. Stars in her eyes. A young, inexperienced officer, fresh from the academy, larger than life, unaware of the darkness she was serving. A better time, she thought, while it lasted. Perhaps there was something to the term 'ignorance is bliss', but she recalled the full quote; 'where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise'. Nick taught her that. She thought of him now. It was a mere few days from when she met the fox, which would eventually set her on the path to solving the nightshade case, and pave the way to marriage, a career, and eventually, the felonies she committed in the name of justice. A life lived, when mapped like this, in a straight line, almost seemed simple. She continued reading. Details of her first few days on the job, and omissions made in the name of secrecy regarding the nightshade case, indicating that the complete folder on that file could be found in the archives, or elsewhere in the building, as Trisha had suggested. And then, nothing. A flat line. Mundane, routine arrests. Her record-breaking dash was not mentioned anywhere, nor were her achievements documented in any way besides a silent for of acceptance; a statement. Flat line. The last entry was her presence in the night club case. 'Officer appears traumatized by the case' it read, and then terminated. She closed the folder and set it back, sending the drawer flying inwards with a gentle nudge. It rattled. Traumatized. A single word to sum up a thousand emotions; fear, regret, self-loathing, disbelief, disgust, and so on. They kept spinning in her mind now, followed by the pictures. The victims were buried now. Resting beneath the Earth's calm surface, turning in the void, forgotten. Red fox. This could've easily been Nick, she thought, and felt that pain return, but willed it away, sending it on the same path as the burning sensation in her scar, on her forearm. She returned to the desk. The dialogue had closed, showing a simple message. 'Backup complete'. She removed the disk, and turned the computer off, taking great care to remove the key as well.  
  
Their leaving the station was an uneventful retreading of paths already walked. No-one stood in their way. Nick hoisted her up into the vent without trouble, and she followed back out, feeling nothing but gratefulness that the entire job had run its course smoothly and without interruptions. They'd get home, and spend the remainder of the evening in one another's arms, pretending that they weren't sitting a close distance away from what was effectively an atomic bomb. To tear everything asunder. They had the entire thing. Thelonious Bogo's operation would be dismantled momentarily. A question arose in her mind as they clambered out onto the roof and said their good-byes to Trisha, who would stay behind for a few more hours so as to not arouse suspicion; what would they do with the evidence? Who would they bring it to? A number of agencies appeared in her mind but there was no guarantee that any of them weren't as deeply involved with The Order as everything else. The Order. Even the name spoke of pure evil. Pinkerton met them in the car, having passed the time listening to the nightly radio shows. He greeted them jovially, and despite the urgency in their step, took his time leaving the parking lot. It made sense. As little suspicion as possible. The ride home was spent in silence. Nick appeared too tired and haggard to pester Pinkerton with any of the burning questions he no doubt had for him. She watched him as he observed the houses they drove past. For a few minutes, the zebra was talkative, but upon affirming that everything had gone smoothly and that Trisha was fine, they fell into silence. The rain had resumed in the meantime. Drumming a song against the car's bodywork. They waved Pinkerton fare-well, and Nick even gave a half-animated smile, and then they retreated indoors, into their familiar domestic life. Nothing to speak of what transpired here hours ago but the remnants of empty tea mugs and some changes in the orientation of the furniture, minute, and made by habitual shifts in their guests' speaking positions across the room. Judy initially wanted to leave the disk on the table, but decided to hide it in the same drawer as the gun, which they took, and put under the bed. Just in case.  
  
Better safe than sorry, Nick said, and she gave a weak nod; this did not help the feeling that had been growing inside of her since they left: impending doom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, that's been a while coming! I know that there's been a ridiculous delay between this chapter and the previous one, but there's a good reason for it. Without wanting to go into too much detail, I was hospitalized in a psychiatric institution briefly and, for the first time in my life, given medication. The events of these last few days have been hectic, and combined with the fact that my mood went from manic to depressive, meant that I hadn't really had the time or the ability to fill in the chapter I needed. Still, here it is, and I promise that we'll go back to our regularly scheduled programming as soon as possible: a chapter every two days. I've got everything beyond this worked out perfectly. Another reason why this chapter took such a long time is because of its difference in tone. Rather than being an introspective, personal chapter focused solely on one character, it is somewhat more action-based, and therefore lends itself well to heat-of-the-moment observations and off-the-cuff jokes the likes of which I really hadn't had the chance to tell in the story's run thus far. This puts it some distance outside of my comfort zone. On a separate side-note, fuck me, writing dialogue for four characters simultaneously is difficult as all hell. Thankfully, I managed, and I hope I did a good job. Don't worry, I won't keep you any longer!
> 
> I also recommend that you take a gander at my Tumblr page as I have recently gotten into reviewing films by means of a...self-cast? Kind of like a pod-cast but where I'm the sole person talking. If you enjoy film, you may enjoy that, too. You'll find a link to my Tumblr on my profile, but make sure to paste it into the URL bar as it isn't a clickable link. 
> 
> So, thank you so much for reading, for giving kudos, and for bookmarking this story! I adore each and every single one of you and I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your patience with my (frankly ridiculous) delay. There's more coming your way soon.
> 
> Cheers!


	12. Blockbuster Night pt. 1

A disturbing trend had made itself apparent in the last two or three decades; a trend of a complacent society, one that had become adapted to anything and everything. To whom suffering and loss had become such a routine matter that it could be handled by a pair of forms discreetly mailed off to some invisible repository, contained within a monolithic fortress of bureaucracy. How little it took for peace to be made in the eyes of officials. Melancholy sentiments, emotions concealed and locked away in the absence of some important gear in this great machine, reduced to a signature atop a dotted line, which Judy filled in swiftly. Her plate of steamed carrots reminded her that she needed to eat. An affirmation of four days away from work for grievance purposes. Usually, this would time would also be reserved for a funeral, but the bunny had the distinct impression that even if there was an immediate burial for Ritter she would not be invited. Inner circle. Bogo would insist upon giving his fabled warrior a private send off, no doubt imbued with a plethora of stolen symbolism and overwrought motifs, all hankering to some forgotten past, of grandness, of power running rampant and unchecked. In the time between her waking and sitting down for breakfast, she had taken a moment to do a cursory internet search on the old North mythologies that Trisha assured her was the basis for Bogo's philosophy.   
  
Not much of it made sense, and was broken up by an aeon of separation; impossibly vast spaces of nothing, left up to the reader's interpretation. Skilled academics pacing through the marble halls of Centralia's fabled universities filled these gaps with rigorous study and elimination of the impossible. Thelonious Bogo made up his own world. One where he was inevitably in the right. During the course of the morning, her eyes drifted to the couch a number of times, but not with the prospect of watching morning TV shows. An hour or less left before Nick left. Work called him. Even on the cusp of moments like these, the grind continued, and he remarked as much, off-pawedly whilst fixing his fur in the bathroom mirror. She could sense a distinct sort of annoyance in his voice. Almost as if her husband expected his employer to know that great things were afoot. So now they ate, opposite one another, taking bites, exchanging mundane sentences, and ushering in the tranqulitity to which they had become so accustomed to. There were no tempests to boil now. That would come later. Judy bit her lower lip upon swallowing the last forkful of her breakfast.   
  
Shortly after waking, lying beside one another, they discussed their individual tasks given the mass of evidence they had. Her job would be sorting through it. Despite her pursuance of adventure and justice delivered in person, Judy excelled at paperwork, and at the meticulous attention to detail which such tasks called for. Nothing would escape her observant eye, and he reminder her of that. His job would cater to his own expertise; surreptitious infiltration and asking the right questions at the right time. They needed an agent. A vessel through which they would bring about the justice which was so desperately needed in an hour like this. No longer their own war, he reminded her; for once, things were bigger than her, and that was an inescapable fact. Judy shuddered slightly at that phrase. The last time she heard it spoken out loud, it came from the mouth of the villain himself, just as his fingers pressed into the sides of her rib-cage. Now her husband whispered it to her, calmingly and with a twist of affection, shortly before pulling her in for a tender kiss. The duality escaped him. Judy could not recall whether she had quoted Bogo when she first brought it up, but even if she did, he most likely forgot. There wasn't a trace of malice in his intentions; how could there be? All Nick wanted to do was show her the true state of play. What once was a renegade operation against a would-be warlord became a delicately paced dance of pushing and pulling. Find the right spots, wait for the correct moment, and then pounce. Two stained plates, to be washed at a more opportune time.   
  
Soon she would delve head-first into the eye of madness itself. The focal point of everything. Within the sleek, black object she brought out from beneath the couch and now held in her paws lay the truth, as bare as the day it was forged. Nothing concealed any more. Judy could not know with certainty. Perhaps Bogo had anticipated this sort of attack, and had armoured himself against it. Digital files were easy to transfer, and even easier to carry. One could walk out of the building carrying the crux of his conspiracy, and alert no-one, just like they had done list night, without a single wandering eye to suspect them. To reduce it all to stacks of folders and endless, recursive papers permitted a certain freedom of movement. Removing twenty years worth of records by paw was difficult. But did he truly predict that? Or was she seeing connections where there were none? Thelonious Bogo was a creature of cunning, tempered by years of working beneath the surface of the official, tempered to his own goals. As much as she hated him, she had to admit that he had shown himself staggeringly competent thus far. For a lunatic, he was organized, rational, and measured. Not a lunatic, she thought; a psychopath certainly. But not insane.   
  
"Whiskers, you've been staring at that thing for twenty minutes now." Nick's voice roused her, and she glanced up at him, "Put it down, and take a few deep breaths." She gave a soft nod; and there was his paw, on her cheek, cupping it, holding it softly, and giving her fur a protective caress, "Everything is going to be okay. We have what we need. Now we just need to deliver this to the right animals."  
  
"I know, but..." Her own paw covered his and she looked up, "What if they won't listen? What if he paid them off too?"  
  
"Well, if he did, we're going to die. They're going to kill us. But..." He leaned in, and she felt her nose against his for a moment. How could a creature be this utterly disarming and terrifyingly sane at the same time? "Only time will tell. We have to try."  
  
"Of course." She nodded, and calmed herself slightly, "I never thought we'd come this far." Judy stretched herself and draped her body across Nick's nude lap, looking up at him with either of her paws behind her head, taking deep breaths, as deep as she could manage, to further calm her own, racing thoughts.   
  
"That's exactly my point. We've broken every imaginable record." He smiled out of the corner of his mouth, "By all accounts, we should've been killed last night, but here we are." The ying to his yang, the wind in his sails; her own lips drew into a soft beam. Forever there to remind her that she was more, "And that means that not trying would be foolish. After all, we've got fuck all to lose." A pause grew between them, and Judy gave a momentary nod. Not the time to think about that.  
  
"What's on your plate at work today?" She asked and he gave a soft, nonplussed shrug.  
  
"Nothing special." His mouth drew apart into a yawn, but rather than cover his lips, his paw instead turned to caressing her stomach, "Just the usual. Endless slews of articles to go through, and more of Lewis' speeches on how television is the greatest thing ever invented."  
  
"You really don't like him, do you?" She continued and he shook his head a bit, but paused halfway through the gesture.   
  
"Honestly, he seems rather nice. But the way in which he just blindly follows everything he's told and questions nothing..." His free paw clenched at thin air, "It just sickens me. I don't understand how he goes through life."  
  
"I didn't question my own job until you showed me how and why." The bunny suggested and watched his expression turn to one of thought, "And I personally don't approve of the way you criticize everything. Some things are pure of heart."  
  
"Good and evil don't exist. Everything is consequence." He looked to the window, "The sum of any animal's actions is all the events that led up to it, that shaped who they are. Therefore, everything should be approached with caution. Too many wolves in sheep's clothing."  
  
"Do you want a cigarette to go with that assumption, Sartre?" She asked and giggled at her own joke, to which he responded with a deadpan expression.  
  
"Nothing makes me happier than you telling me I should be less awake." He insisted, trying his best to stifle his own chuckle; of course he was fully aware of the absurdity.   
  
"Not less awake, just less of a joyless fuckpail." The bunny sat up and did her best interpretation of a child excited for its first day in school, "The world is so big and beautiful, Nick! So many things to discover! So many nice, innocent things that don't need much thought at all."  
  
"I'll show you joyless, you little minx." In a flash, he was on top of her, kissing her lips and nose wildly while she attempted to defend herself using her paws, both their forms shivering with laughter, "Confess! Confess that I'm right!" He demanded, between each little peck that landed squarely atop her neck. Judy melted into his touch. His paws were beneath her back, holding her to himself, and she began shifting away. This was a game for two. With just a little bit of quick thinking, and her smaller frame, she easily wrestled herself atop him, and sat on his abdomen, paws on his chest, leaving the poor fox defenceless, "Oh no, I've been bested!" He leaned back theatrically, draping his free paw across his forehead, "Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall!" The bunny silenced his protesting with a kiss on the lips, and he sank into it effortlessly. They pulled away, and he held the back of her head with his paw, caressing one of her many weak spots, to which the bunny closed her eyes and pressed against his dancing fingertips, "Measure for Measure. There's a play I haven't read for a while."  
  
"Your wife is sitting naked on top of you and all you can think of is Shakespeare." Judy's smile was a wholesome one, but she could not resist the impeccable jab which had presented itself so squarely, "Typical." All he did was watch her and give a weak nod, eyes half-closed and lingering on her form, evidently spurred by the mention of nudity. Soon enough, she felt something press against her flank, and she looked behind herself. She did not mind at all. Since they woke, she wanted to jump him. Press him against the sheets and kiss him until nothing but his warmth against her remained. The bunny moved a little bit lower and adjusted herself, and she felt the tip of his malehood slip into her, parting her lower lips, and loosing a whispered moan from her throat, "D-do we have time?" She asked, and Nick leaned up a little bit, to glance at the kitchen clock; once he drifted back down, he merely shook his head, "Fuck. Not even a quick one?" Another shake of his head, "Double fuck."  
  
"I miss the days when you used to say 'oh sweet cheese 'n crackers'. More PG that way." He remarked, and she rolled her eyes at that, "I guess the city really did take the country girl out of you."   
  
"Did it really?" Judy teased, wrapping a strand of his chest-fur around her finger; despite his insistence that there was no time, and that he had to hurry to work, he had not withdrawn, and she could still feel him partially inside of her, even slipping in a little further; perhaps only to tease her, but it did not matter, "'Cause I'm still a farm-girl through and through. Matter of fact, I could ride you silly 'till you knot, and make you late on purpose."  
  
"You can't do that!" Nick insisted, eyes wide, "That's, uh...in breach of some contract! Somewhere! Surely, it must be."  
  
"Not at all." She stood her paw on that very finger and slid it up, to his cheek, turning it around to give him a soft caress. All the while, the purple in her eyes glowed with mischief, "I bet you wouldn't resist at all."   
  
"I would." He insisted sagely, but his cheeks broke out into a blush towards the end of it, just as his pelvis moved forward by an inch, pushing her further down atop him, "Okay, maybe not."  
  
"Told you." The bunny cooed in response, "But seriously, we should stop-" With ease, she felt herself turned onto her side, with him lying beside her now, closer to him, "...messing around. Nick!"  
  
"All I did was make myself more comfortable. If that caused anything..." And there came that pause she adored, green locking with purple, and noses hovering inches from one another, his breaths blending with hers as she felt them roll across her whiskers, "...to happen, you really can't hold it against me." Her legs parted themselves at the knees and allowed him to move his hips towards her, until he slipped in fully, down to the very rim of his sheath, with his paws on her upper back, drifting down into the partitions they had made in her fur.   
  
"Are we really doing this..?" She asked in a whisper and received a nod in response, followed by a kiss, and then another, both just beneath her chin.    
  
"Who's teasing whom now?" He whispered and gave her chin a very brief, but thoroughly potent lick, "I win."  
  
"N-never..." The bunny protested, but lifted herself up slightly, to give a soft thrust. He caught on quickly and retorted by gently sliding in and out of her, in a rhythm of sorts, but erratic and spontaneous. A flurry of half-formed words left her, turning to moans and gasps as soon as they passed her lips, and his own face turned to one of blissful pleasure. No more words remained. No teasing sentences to be spoken. For four minutes, the couple tussled and turned in place, shifting positions, with her spending some time on top, and lying on her back to allow him as much access as possible, giving him kiss after kiss, all of which he stole and prolonged to his heart's content, taking breaks only to breathe deeply, and labouredly. The clock was entirely forgotten about, as was the organised nature of his commute, or the fact that a lecture awaited him when he arrived. Only he remained, beside her once again, and his motions against hers, parted by bookends in the form of caresses and coos. If she could purr like a feline, she most certainly would've. With one last thrust, he pressed his swelling knot against her entrance and groaned. The warmth flooded in, sending her over the edge as well, and he gave her shivering form a few loving glances within his embrace.   
  
In time, he took her paw in his and led her to the bedroom, not for the purposes of an encore, as was common when they had time, but simply because he enjoyed the conversation whilst getting dressed, usually taken together, and in stride. Now she watched from the bed, paws on her chin, and legs crossed. A meandering series of thoughts on the twenty-four hour news cycle. More complaining. His voice faded from her mind, and she looked to the floor; from the living room couch to the bed, spurred by the motions of her hips, a trail of sizeable white drops appeared. Something about seeing his seed seep out of her like that both aroused her and made her sigh softly. If only. She walked him to the door, too, and kissed him on the lips, hiding behind the wooden object to prevent any peering neighbours from seeing too much. Watching him leave brought back the feeling of cold. And that damnable black square. Nothing could last.   
  
"For the record, I did win." He insisted, and she gave an incredulous smile before letting the door shut itself, leaving her to her own devices with a thud; in a big, empty apartment, with no-one but the ghosts of Bogo's victims to keep her company. Her paws drifted to her shoulders. She sat on the sofa, and opened her computer. Stains. She'd have to clean those before Clementine arrived. Nothing worse than letting your mother-in-law see things she already knew, but didn't need any help in reaffirming. Later. The computer buzzed once, and the screen was at once awash in colour. Her wallpaper was simple. One of the stock photographs on offer, showing some desert vista, no doubt manipulated beyond recognition, but none the less pleasant. Judy checked her Furbook, but as more of a distraction. Ten minutes after setting out to do what truly needed to be done, she was no closer to being productive than she was half an hour ago, in his paws. The cable seemed to stare daggers into her. What a painful little implement, she thought, how commanding despite not being able to speak. It clicked in easily. In the heat of the theft itself, Judy had not noticed the way the device rumbled when plugged in; she recalled explaining hard disks to Nick.   
  
A disk spins on a central axis, covered with minute magnetic indentations, whilst a reader head scans it for the written data. The moment she opened her mouth, she lost him to the realm of sexual jokes and innuendo, and rather than push the point, she decided to silence him with a kiss. So now Nicholas Wilde went through life not knowing how his own computer 'remembered' (and that was his figure of speech) any of the things that he put into it. This was an astounding line of his character. Technologically inept and illiterate to the absolute, but only when it came to something that wasn't his phone. The tiny, rectangular device was an object fully explored. He even showed her to root hers. His instructions were awash in similes, adjectives that were hilariously out of place, and motions that made no sense, but he understood the inner workings of the pocket-sized device perfectly. Still, their Blu-Ray player was an object of mystery; disc goes in, symphony comes out.   
  
Judy had drifted off once again. With a straightening motion of her back, she brought herself back to reality. Evidence. A dialogue sat on the screen. It offered a number of options, and she selected the one that allowed her to view all of the files, rather than use a specific piece of software to open all of them, or copy them to another device. A row of folders appeared in front of her. The root file-system of Bogo's computer. Documents. More folders. An endless sea of them lay divided alphabetically, each labelled the way you'd expect a police commissioner's computer to be sorted; cases, evidence, personnel, impound, and the list went on. Nothing out of the ordinary. In time she would open each, but she read on. At the bottom lay a folder concealed, labelled 'zOND'. She felt a shudder rock her shoulders. This had to be it. The initials made sense: Order of the New Dawn. The letter at the beginning was a purposeful addition, to bury the folder at the very bottom. Amateurish, but she did not expect anything less. Bogo had not suspected that anyone would be looking through his skeletons so soon.   
  
The cursor hovered over the folder. Rather than open it, the bunny selected properties first, namely to see how big it was. Nearly one hundred and fifty-five gigabytes of data, hidden behind an innocuous icon. Delve into the nucleus. She opened it. The scroll button on the right, which indicated how lengthy a list was, shrank dramatically, until it barely became a dot. More folders. A sea of them. Twenty years of digitized data. The mire inside her stomach grew, but in an odd way; seeing it all like this only showed Judy how meticulous he had been, how neat and organised his attempts at insurrection were, whilst also exposing him for what it was. Potentially thousands of victims lay buried here. Immortalized in ones and zeroes. Everyone dies twice, she recalled, hearing Ritter's voice in the back of her mind, close to the paths she never dared walk again; once, when their breath leaves their bodies, and a second time, when their name is spoken for the last time. Did any of those that lay cremated here suspect that she'd be looking over them now? That each inward repetition of the names she'd stumble upon would give them minutes of additional life in someone else's mind? In the mind of someone they never met, but someone that was working to free them once and for all. She opened the first sub-folder.   
  
From there, it all became a haze. Names, spinning across her screen like ticker tape; monikers of victims laying snugly beside those of their executioners. At least forty manifests, each prompting another drop of cold sweat to run down the side of her head, to drench her back, and send her feet into an even colder block of ice; explosives, bought in thousands of pounds, illicitly procured with threats of violence to hinder any attempts at interference, followed by guns, and by an inventory of armour and equipment. Order: HS Produkt VHS-D rifles; five digits. Ten thousand guns. Fifteen thousand kevlar vests. Nearly five hundred thousand gallons of synthetic diesel. Her eyes went wide. There wasn't a doubt in her mind; Bogo was arming a major military force. Deeper down, still. Your work is not yet done, Judy; the accursed whispering only made her paws shiver even more. Crimes. Every major bank robbery in the last decade had something to do with him. Trillions stolen and used to buy and sell assets overseas, in turn milled into additional funds for the procurement of more equipment, more officials, and more power. Conglomerates were next. Every last one of them, from the Hephaestus Defence Group to TeleTopia Telecommunications were infiltrated, some at the very highest of levels, with their CEOs working directly for Bogo. An hour passed, and she had barely gone through the first one percent of what was on record.   
  
Judy stood to her feet, with her paws no longer following the orders she gave them, and she began pacing nervously, wiping the sweat from her forehead in bursts; innocents will die. There truly was no time. And she had not even opened the folder she spotted close to the bottom, the one she feared the most: targets. It was obvious what it was. This is how his revolution would begin. Not wanting to waste any more time, Judy darted back to the computer; innocents will die. She opened the folder. A single file. A single text file labelled 'Phase I: Operation Blockbuster Night'. She clicked it open. The press of the cursor button was drowned out by a pair of sounds she hadn't heard before; shattering glass, and a needle embedding itself in her skin. This wasn't anxiety, she thought, eyes rolling back in her head, and the world darkening around her. On her neck, a small point of pressure burned vividly, but she hardly felt her impact with the floor. Call Nick. Call him now. Limp paws grasped at where her phone sat, roughly, at the edge of the table, but seized nothing. Through the haze of the swaying hardwood, she could hear wood breaking, in three thuds. The first made an indent, the second accentuated the first, and the third sent their door crashing down. Paws on her arms, binding her wrists. Her vision vanished. Cold pulsed through her veins.   
  
"Ten-four, Unit Alpha. Target neutralized." A voice, distant, buzzing and humming with static.    
  
And then, nothing at all.   
  


* * *

  
  
Soft, distant drums, barely palpable. Two flutes rising out of the nothingness to back them up, and a rise in tempo, with more instruments joining. It had a gentle sway to itself, and Nick found his fingers flying across the keys as he attempted to edit a word which would always automatically correct itself back to its initial form. But it did not matter. With each draw and click of the mouse, the music followed, rising still, for almost eight minutes now; that was the unique magic of Shostakovich. Nothing else could quite capture the idea of musical build like his music. Entire minutes of a melody growing from nothing, where he would establish a series of themes, in this case a rattle of military drums, and long, apocalyptic horns, and then build upon them, playing with the very idea of what a symphony could be. The individual images he outlined would spread beyond the sheet music, almost passing into some transcendental place, and as the themes repeated, time and time again, he'd add something else; a twist to it. A plucking harp, a triangle, a long choir of additional horns. Certain types of electronic music featured something commonly referred to as a 'drop', where the build would hit, and its impact would serve to rile up the crowd with anticipation. While he personally did not indulge in music that revolved around such a design, he was familiar with the theoretical concept. It spoke to something profoundly basal in all animals; a sense of anticipation, perpetually building uncertainty, where suspense became the sole palpable drive of the listener. The drop felt like a release of pent-up energy. Sudden, explosive, unexpected, and sometimes violent.   
  
If that was its modern form, Nick mused as he pushed a lone eraser across the desk, this was its earliest iteration. Did the high-class gentile that witnessed the premiere of this piece lose their minds as soon as it all began unravelling? Mental images of well-dressed animals savagely flinging snuff boxes and monocles at one another drew a smile out of him. Small, brief periods of silence followed by the gentle arrival of something unseen before. Just as the first movement of Shostakovich's 11th began lulling him into a rhythmic drawl, it began. Deep, groaning cellos, followed by aching violins, in complete dissonance of one another, continuing towards some obscured goal. He had heard this symphony a hundred times, performed by many multiple different ensembles, and that moment, in which Dimitri unleashed pandemonium with a simple drop of the baton, be it his or some future conductor's, made his fur shiver with glee. Horns, so many horns, more joining in now, dozens, and the violins reaching their frenzied apex, their tempo maddening, having nowhere left to go but up, the road from which they came obscured now. Boom. A deep, single blow. A drum. It kept going. He leaned back. Outwardly, he showed no emotion, apart from detachment. But the moment the complete brass choir hit, like a freight train on fire sliding into a station laden with high explosives, his paw twitched visibly. In that moment, Nicholas wanted to shed all semblance of manner and sanity and begin a routine across the entire office, waving around a pencil as a conductor's baton, and giving stark looks to his co-workers, until security escorted him out. The brief swell tapered out, and he was on the edge of his chair again, awaiting once more the arrival of that inevitable peak. His muzzle began swaying to it, and just as he closed his eyes and began going over the sheet music for the violins, he felt a tapping on his shoulder. The fox gave a gasp of surprise and recoiled, turning to the source of the interruption; two curious otter ears flicked idly before him. Lewis. He plucked one of the earphones out, but it wasn't the same with just one channel, half the audio dissipating idly into the environment. So he hit the pause button.   
  
"Enjoying yourself there, buddy?" The otter asked, and smiled widely; in that moment, there wasn't an ounce of Lewis that Nick didn't hate with a deep-seated passion. How could he possibly be this fucking elated on a miserable Thursday morning? There he goes again, the fox mused as he watched his co-worker throw a gummy fish into the air and catch it with his mouth. If there ever was such a thing as a walking embodiment of corporate culture, of the mindless drive for consumption and eagerness to serve concealed masters, Lewis was it. And Nick hated him, "How's your morning going?" The otter pressed again. Of course he did. This was his standard routine for when he didn't get an answer right away, "How're the wife and kids?"  
  
"Wife is fine, kids are non-existent." He quipped in return and felt a clap on his shoulder followed by something that was more of a wheeze than a laugh. A painfully protracted wheeze. If he truly wanted to be evil, he would've offered the otter a throat lozenge mid-laugh. But he held off on that. For now.   
  
"Classic Nicky!" By the Gods, how he hated him, "I've been very good myself." Nick hadn't asked, but he didn't have to, "Watched another episode of Game of Barks yesterday." This again. Nick's forehead slipped into his paw, supported by his elbow, which had suddenly found itself lodged atop the desk. His other paw, concealed behind his knee, clenched into a fist, "That show does suspense like nothing else!" I'd quite like to suspend you myself, Lewis. Above a vat of acid, "Watched anything good lately?" Yes, Nick wanted to respond, the mental images of throwing you off the roof. Inwardly, the fox laughed, but all that came as a result of it was a half-smile in the corner of his mouth which Lewis couldn't see.  
  
"Nothing, really. I tend to avoid television where I can." This was the perfect opportunity to fuck with the otter's mind for a little bit, "Mostly because..." Seconds before he was about to launch into a long-winded explanation of why commercials were the most evil thing created by animal-kind, his words were cut short by a gasp.   
  
"How can you possibly say that?" The otter asked, and stuffed a pawful of gummy fish into his mouth; into his wretched, bottomless, unceasingly opinionated mouth, "Tefefision if a mafical tfing." Lewis swallowed loudly, "I spent half my life in front of that wonderful box and, well...see? I turned out just fine." Once more, Nick's forehead clapped against his palm. The strength of that gesture was palpable, but Lewis appeared to also posses the incredible ability of selective attention. When united with his complete disregard for anyone else's interest in what he was saying, and his palpably infinite adoration of his own voice, the outcome was borderline nightmarish. If the Gods were indeed real, they would've cut his suffering short a long time ago. And whether or not the overly-energetic otter was indeed 'fine' or whether he was suffering from some arcane form of pop-culture-induced brain trauma was up to debate. A debate between a neurosurgeon, Sigmund Freud, and a priest.   
  
"I just can't stand the commercials." He admitted. What good was a long-winded explanation when any multi-syllable word was sure to fly over Lewis' head and leave him staring ahead blankly, to say nothing of social theory? "They just tire me out. Buy this and buy that."  
  
"That's the great part about it!" He looked to the otter once again and found Lewis pointing at him accusingly with the tail of a gummy fish, wagging it about as if he was punctuating some gravely significant argument, "It tells you what you need before you even know that you need it!" He raised an index finger and tapped the side of his head, as if to say that he knew. The fox opposite was wholly surprised that it did not give a hollow ring when he did that, "That's the core of its genius."  
  
"Sure, Lewis." One more second of this, and Nicholas Piberius Wilde would gladly become an ex-fox. After all, with enough of a running start, he could certainly break one of the big windows which surrounded the office on all sides and fall into the sweet relief of an untimely death. He rose to his feet, and with one fell swoop of his paw, dropped the stack of papers in front of himself into his arm. The break room should provide a hitherto unparalleled degree of silence, even with the vending machines' hum drifting in and out of his ears, "Keep telling yourself that. I, for one, am glad that my brain isn't a mass of shapeless putty."   
  
Nick made for plain, white gates of salvation, having affixed his earphones in his ears again, and pressed open the break room door with his shoulder. A gazelle stood in the corner, one he could vaguely identify from behind. She dropped one of the plastic stirring spoons, attempted to pick it up, and dropped it again a second time; Hornetta. The music began to annoy him. Lewis had somehow managed to ruin Shostakovich for him. With a sigh, he once more tore the earbuds out of his ears and let them fall flat into the palm of his paw. Rather than greet Hornetta, he opted to see how long it would take her to figure out that he was behind her, so he put his papers on the nearby table softly, making sure that they did not make a noise, and watched. She poured her coffee carefully. Each of her motions appeared to be thoroughly measured and deliberate, if profoundly unsteady. Her hooves lay pointed at one another. He checked his phone while he waited, with the gazelle still oblivious to his presence, despite not having a pair of earphones in her ears, which was the first thing he looked for; nothing from Judy yet. Either she suspected that their communications were being monitored, or she had not yet started work. But there was a third option, spurred by a sudden, descending feeling of dread. Something was wrong. He pondered calling Judy, his little experiment be damned. A split-second after he opened his address book and found her contact, sitting on top of all the other ones with a gold star beside her name, Hornetta greeted him.   
  
"Nick! Hi!" She stammered slightly, looking from one side of the room to the other nervously, "Didn't notice you there."  
  
"Hi. I actually wanted to see how long it would take you to notice me, but..." He pressed the dial button and raised a finger, "I just need to make a phone call." Hornetta nodded and he looked out the window. The street below was in its usual state, with animals pacing from one side of it to the other, some vanishing behind the far right divider of the window, and others appearing in the lower left corner. One beep. Now she would answer. A pair of sloths walked arm in arm, quite striking against such a vivid backdrop, with their movements sluggish and deliberate. Hornetta fumbled behind him audibly. Two beeps. His chest grew cold. Nick could no longer draw breath fully. Very, very wrong. A canine and a feline of indeterminate species having a thoroughly vivid argument on the corner of the street. Two kittens ran past them, one hiding playfully behind a trash can. Lewis approached the break room, and he saw him out of the corner of his eye, with his lips drawn into an elated smile, and his paw already outstretched to grasp at the door knob. Three beeps.   
  
The trash can exploded.  
  
In that moment, he felt nothing. He felt force. Pressure against his chest. Deafening noise, akin to an earthquake meeting the end of the world. His feet left the ground at once, and he felt himself hit the far wall with his back. Concrete tore around him. Glass, rattling across the floor, sand being spilled from one paw to the other, but louder, a waterfall of white noise. Rocking, over and over. His head hurt. His legs hurt. Numbness, cold, distance. There wasn't an ounce of his body that did not feel as if someone had just thrown him from a rooftop. More noise. A distant, dull thud. The structural rebar growled and hissed in his ears, with that distinctive sound of metal bending forcefully, a shrill screech, and then another long series of thuds. Screams in the distance. Someone called for the Gods. They were swiftly silenced. Nick attempted to open his eyes. They stung. Something indistinctly grainy prevented him from opening his eyes. He pulled himself closer, or what was still left of him. Nothing below his knees existed. Just pins and needles, separated and torn away, but he still moved the ghostly appendages with as much strength as he could muster. He reached up with his paw and wiped at his eyes. His vision cleared somewhat. All around him, darkness reigned. Nothing definitive to be found. Light streamed in from a crack in front of him. Two cracks, one just above the other. He tried to lift his head but found it to be blocked. Nick's mouth opened wide. Blood on the edge of his paw. Warm and potent. It smelled strongly of metal. That was supposed to stay inside, he muttered to himself, and began laughing. He was in shock; nothing else followed that thought; shock. Shock and awe.   
  
The air in his lungs grew scant and he shook his head. Still laughing like a madman to himself, he beat against the barricade in front of himself with his elbow. It ached deeply, but he continued, even as spots of blood appeared on the white surface. One more strike, he thought, and pressed again. It gave way, breaking apart. However, it did not fall to the floor. Instead, the debris fell through the floor. Nick covered his head with his paws as he felt the table above him, lodged in the wall, slide out and follow the shattered concrete. He sat curled on a ledge, barely four feet across and one foot wide. On its leading edge lay a water pipe, spilling a torrent of clear drinking water downwards, into the floor below. Beside it lay a tight grouping of electrical installations that gave off tiny, almost invisible sparks, and hissed with each outburst. Nick raised his gaze.   
  
There was no more break room. It was gone. As were the windows looking out into the street. For that matter, there was no street, either. Where the playing kittens once stood now lay a crater. The concrete was torn away in thick blocks, barely visible through the plumes of smoke that covered everything; beneath the edge of one block, he spotted a small, blackened object. Nick looked closer. An arm. Severed at the elbow, and lying in a pool of scorched, splattered blood. Some distance away from it lay a car on its side. Fire rose out of it. Everything was on fire: the remaining walls, the rubble beside the crater, the tiny, formless lumps lying everywhere, destroyed in the absolute. His world burned. He clung to the wall as best he could and retched into the collapsed mass beneath his feet. Compose yourself, his mind yelled. Compose yourself, run, get out. Leave. There is nothing here any-more. The fox shook his head once again, and tittered to himself, just as tears began to form in the very corners of his bloodshot, impacted eyes. Another slew of vomit poured from his muzzle. He nearly fell to his knees, but caught himself in time. Run. Leave. Nick looked to the right of himself. On the ledge lay Hornetta, her body shoved against the wall, and her arm twisted at an angle. He pressed his back to the wall and moved towards her. The ledge shrank dramatically, until it was barely half a foot wide, but he managed. The section she lay on was safe. The ledge shook, and he turned, only to see that the one he stood on collapsed as well, ripping off more piping and sending another torrent of water shooting out. He reached for her wrist. A pulse. Faint, but present. Hornetta was alive. He rolled the gazelle onto her back. One of her horns had been blown off in the blast, and her arm was visibly broken, but her chest rose and fell calmly, as if she was lying in her bed. He shook her cheek slightly. The laugh on his lips turned to a whine.   
  
"Please, please wake up..." He begged at nothing, "Please be alive."  
  
Something landed on her cheek. Ash. He looked up for another second. All around him, ash fell like rain. Burning cinders, deformed pieces of paper, and even a sizeable piece of what was once a spreadsheet drifted down. Rose petals. For one reason or another, he thought of those rosy petals left behind by cherry trees when they blossomed. Some burned before they hit anything. Others simply touched down, soundlessly.   
  
"Please wake up." He shook her again, "C'mon, you're alive, wake up." In that moment it ocurred to him that he could not hear his own words. His ears beeped. It was a faint line of noise. Distant hissing, the sort you'd hear if you turned your TV off. He shook his head. And then it all went, like someone pulled a plug on the world. From nothing rose screams, panicked cries across the devastated remnants of the office floor. Someone screaming somebody else's name. The roar and crackle of flames. He looked about himself. The place where Lewis once stood was vaporized. The door itself was gone. Rows of office cubicles lay piled up against a wall with the cracked monitor screens reflecting the fires, and giving a clear visual response. Shapes moved through this pandemonium. One of them fell. It did not get up again. This was not happening. Nick was dreaming. He was still in bed beside Judy and was just getting ready for the rest of his day. A groan caught his attention, quiet, but distinct against the blaring of his surroundings. He looked down, and found Hornetta looking up at him. Her blue eyes were hazy, but she was conscious, and grasping at his shirt.   
  
"Nick...Nick, is that you?" She asked and he nodded, but knelt beside her instantly, his paws running up and down her shoulders rapidly, checking whether she was indeed alive, or whether it was all just a dream. The gazelle sat up, "W-what happened..?" She asked, and moved her shattered arm to her face, which caused her to wince and hiss in pain at once. His reassuring was met by a howl of pain and long, laboured breaths, tears spilling from her eyes uncontrollably. She had come to. Now she was seeing for the first time what he had seen minutes ago. Was it minutes? Or hours? "By the Gods." Three words he heard often. Barren, empty eyes scanning across her surroundings. Her entire form was covered in a fine, white powder, and looking at his arms, he noticed that he was too. "By the Gods, what the fuck?!" She began screaming and he held her shoulders as she kicked violently, shaking the unstable platform they stood on, and sending wires hissing and popping behind them, "What the fuck, holy shit, what the fuck..." The gazelle pulled him closer and clung to him, and he could not let go even if he wanted to, "What the fuck..."  
  
"It's okay, Hornetta. It's okay..." He repeated, over and over. Run, get out. Get her to her hooves, and run. Make for an exit, any exit, "We need to go. Hornetta, we need to go."  
  
"Go where?! What are you talking about?!" She demanded, and he took a deep breath, followed by a slap across her face; shock. The gazelle froze, and blinked once, her good arm falling beside her limply, eyes continuing to look at something behind him, "What happened?"  
  
"I don't know." Nick's response was instantaneous, and he pushed her away slightly, but as gently as he could manage, moving her arm away from his back and taking her by the hand, "We need to leave."   
  
"Everyone..." She repeated to herself. It took her a moment to stand, but when she did, she did so without knowing, "...is dead."  
  
"Yes." The fox's response was a cold one, but they needed to leave; aftershocks. He did not know what caused this. It could've been an earthquake. Aftershocks. Run, "We need to find some way to get off this ledge."   
  
"Look..." She pointed to the ruins of the office, "Everyone is dead."  
  
"I know, Hornetta." There was no emotion in his tone, but there was no time to consider the ramifications of that statement, either, "Help me look for a way down."  
  
He watched her take a few deep breaths, cough up some dust, and move at once, with purpose. The rubble had made a slide of sorts, reaching up to where they stood and allowing them to descend with a brisk jump; or at least him. Hornetta's larger, more ungainly frame may struggle on the way down, but he would catch her, and he promised as much. It was his turn. Nick stood at the edge and tried his best to not look out beyond the point where the windows once stood. He did so only once. But the crater was still there. Don't think about it, he reminded himself; you're dreaming. Survive in the dream, and worry about reality later. He pushed back against the ledge and lept up, and caught the edge at once, sliding down on his back. The moment of impact was a painful one, and he yelped loudly, which prompted Hornetta to look down. Between his first two toes lay a sharp piece of glass. The act of pulling it out stung, but the blood was minimal. Keep moving. Hornetta was next. For a moment she paced around the ledge, looking from one side to the other, and he encouraged her to jump as best he could, waving his arms and calling to her. The ledge beneath her shook and she stumbled.   
  
"If you don't jump now..." Before he could finish his sentence, she stepped off the edge and slid down in the same fashion as he did, and he caught her on time, pressing his body against hers, and she slumped over his head slightly, but steadied herself momentarily, "Exit should be that way."  
  
The lower office was slightly less damaged, but large portions of the ceiling had still caved in, and glancing towards the main section of it, he could see the crumbling support pillars strain under the weight of the upper floors, with twisted portions of rebar sticking out, and leaning sharply in one direction. Three floors to go. Jumping would get them nowhere. So they walked forward, with Nick in front, and Hornetta in the back. The office was dark. Light streamed in from outside through the shattered rows of windows, but it merely illuminated the edges, leaving a corridor of luminescence to guide them out. The carpeting was ruined; fragments of glass shone on it, with the direction of the light changing the closer they got to the windows. Panelling hung from the ceiling, and they walked around a long, flowing arc of water which emanated from unseen point above them. All the lights had been blown out, save for one, the last in a row of them, giving a flicker with each drawn-out buzz. Electrical noises hummed and droned in the background; far behind them, some above them, and below them, too. As they walked past the row of now-empty window frames, Nick resisted the urge to look down, and so did Hornetta, both opting to stare at their feet instead, and walk towards the staircase. Each floor had one, locked and lying beside the elevator, to be used on busy days or during evacuations. Do not use the elevator in case of fire; he had that stupid sign memorized. Nothing else to read on the long way up in the mornings. Of course now there would be no more mornings. No more robotic renditions of 'The Girl from Iyakeema'. No more Lewis. No more Edwards. Everyone is dead.   
  
The door to the stairwell was unlocked, but something else grasped his attention. He and Hornetta turned to the window at the same time. A shape fell past it. And then another one. A visceral shattering noise echoed from below. Jumpers. One of the floors between his and the top one must've caught fire. No other way down. Hornetta swayed in place for a moment and began falling, but he caught her; she was passing out, and all he could think was 'fancy that'. Nothing else. Get out. Run. They were already dead. All of them. From the moment that blast hit, everyone on the floors above his was dead. It wasn't his problem now. There was nothing he could do. The two co-workers ran down the steps as fast as they could, to the sound of shifting concrete and bending metal; those same howls he heard earlier. Soon, the upper floors would cave in on the lower ones. How much longer did they have? Minutes? Maybe less. Seconds. They reached the first floor. The door of that office was wide open. Empty, and for the most part, having sustained minimal damage. Everyone must've already escaped. Seconds left to spare. Hornetta overtook him on the ground floor and pushed her way past him, slapping the door open and making for the parking lot. The revolving door at the entrance had fractures in its glass but was in tact, and her desk was in one piece, too. She stopped before the exit and grabbed her bag, presumably containing her computer, from the wooden surface and continued walking. He caught up with her momentarily. Ash fell outside, in the same long, drawn-out patterns as it did before, dancing down. The trees surrounding the lot were on fire. Their leaves danced down sideways and burnt themselves out on the pavement. It occurred to Nick that he had never seen trees burn like this before. He had never seen the lush, strong canopies, seeming as if they'd last an eternity and outlive them all, just go up in flames like that.   
  
"We need to get to your car!" Hornetta cried, and he followed her, slowly at first, and then with a light jog. Behind the rows of trees on the far side, he could see emergency lights, glowing red and rotating.   
  
"Look, they're here!" He pointed to them and Hornetta turned, changing her trajectory, and he followed. A tremendous roar echoed behind them and they turned. The office was entirely engulfed in flame, with the top floors ripped asunder in a torrential shower of fire, thick, impenetrable smoke rising from them; the roof had inevitably caved in, presumably from the shock-wave, and as soon as they took in the sight, it began unravelling. It went like a stack of dominoes. The top floor fell downwards, followed by another, and another, until it became faster. Nick's reflexes kicked in. He lunged towards Hornetta and grabbed her waist, and pressed her down beside a nearby car, sitting against its edge. The noise was unlike anything he had ever heard before; vicious bellowing. A beast struck down. Collapsing and twisting, and the rattle of bricks and shattering glass, getting closer. Something fragmented above them. One of the bricks had been propelled with the power of a cannon shot and it breached the side window of the car, embedding itself in the side of the vehicle adjacent. Dust engulfed them. He couldn't see or hear anything. Just hold onto her. Don't let go. She did the same. Two arms. Even her broken limb had pressed itself against his side, desperately holding onto him. And as soon as it began, it just stopped. Someone had hit the pause button. Nick was the first to look up. He could see nothing from the dust. Going by memory, he pulled Hornetta's good arm and began walking to those lights, to those damnable lights of salvation. The further they got from the cloud, the more they saw. Or rather, less. The office was gone. Flattened. Compressed into a pile of rubble barely reaching to what was once two floors.   
  
"This cannot be happening..." Hornetta said, and all he could do was nod. They continued walking.   
  
They approached the edge of the lot and from the smoke they could see a shape emerging. It reached out to them, moving quicker now, quicker still, and holding something oblong, and obviously quite heavy.   
  
"Are you okay?" A voice called from beyond, "Are you hurt?"  
  
"Yes!" Nick called back, and his lips drew into the widest smile of his life; at last, salvation. It was a fire-fighter. A cheetah, with imposing shoulders and a towering stature, clad in a red suit and with a helmet on his head, his right paw holding a fire extinguisher. He took Nick by the paw wordlessly and led him in the direction of the fire truck, which gradually became visible. Four red and white trucks. Nick hadn't been this happy to see a fire truck since he was a very young child. No questions to be asked now. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. An inch or more to the left of his abdomen. It took his breath away. The fox gasped and leaned forward slightly, paw finding the source of the sensation, Hornetta giving him a blank gaze. He pressed it inwards. Another surge of pain rocketed through his body. He moved his palm away and glanced down. Blood shone atop it, twisting the bristles of fur, and staining his paw-pads, starkly crimson against the dark. Wearing a white shirt has its perks, he thought, and wondered how he hadn't noticed before. The mark was massive. It must've bled considerably for some time now. He lifted the moist fabric away and exposed his fur. More blood. There wasn't a single inch of his fur which wasn't drenched in it, and it sank into the waistband of his trousers. With every breath he took, more of it poured from a small, angular wound. Upon closer inspection, he found a small piece of metal protruding out of it, most likely a screw, and he felt himself grow light-headed. This was the potency of adrenaline. He could see it beside himself, too, in Hornetta, whose fractured arm hung weakly at her side, but not once did she complain about it, or even notice it. He felt a paw on his shoulder. It gave him a shake. He looked up. The fire-fighter was giving him a comforting glance, as calming as he could make it to be in the chaos around them.  
  
"Frank, I've got two more!" The fire-fighter called and a paramedic ran towards them, with rubber gloves on his paws; a beaver, somewhat smaller than Nick, but with a wide-eyed expression of terror and exhaustion on his face, "Thank the Gods, at least two more."  
  
The paramedic leaned towards Nick first. His paw hovered inches from the fox's chest. Nick braced himself for the pain, but it never came. A dull thud shook the earth, and both of the emergency workers stood up fully, looking to the rough location of the sound. One of them wiped along his forehead, which left a wide, empty track behind, where dust once sat. The rocketing echo was followed by two identical ones, each on different sides of town. No-one said a word. Silence. Then came the sirens. He had never heard them outside of tests. They signalled danger, and were to be used in case of an attack, a fire, an air raid, or anything similar. Now they droned to life. Long, howling screeches, electronic in nature, fighting for dominance in ever corner of his perception. Some shrieked to the left of him, and others to the right. It was a simple sound. Up and down. Up and down. Over, and over, and over.   
  
"I...I can't believe this..." The paramedic spoke first, and shivered a bit in place; a motion Nick echoed unconsciously, "How many does that make?" The fire-fighter did not respond, "Roger...how many?"  
  
"Twenty-seven." The cheetah nodded, "Yeah, those were three. Twenty-seven." More shapes emerged behind them, in the dozens, running past them, their appearances mere footsteps in the calamity that unfolded, drowned out by the pandemonium, the sirens, and then, another throng of noise. Deep, penetrating, rocking everything. Closer now. The cheetah pulled his helmet off. His eyes were empty. Shock, "Twenty-eight."  
  
This was not happening.

* * *

  
Judy opened her eyes slowly. Light flooded inwards. Her head hurt. It gave a series of faint pulses which became a wrenching pain, swaying inside her skull, with her surroundings following suit, drowned in a bright haze. Pins and needles swam within her. The wake was a slow one, and stretched from her neck downwards, liberating her arms second, one of which gave an errant twitch, followed by her legs. Judy felt herself kick under the sheets. She could still not see anything. Her eyes slid closed once again. Lifting her eyelids again seemed a gargantuan task. Each weighed as much as a small car. The pain moved across her temples and settled on her jaw. Her mouth was dry. On her neck, a small spot burned, a different sort of stitch; one was distant and loud, and this one was close, and acerbic, giving off vile waves. The haze that took her vision began to fade. To her right, a metal bar, stretching from the corner of her vision, and ending up somewhere she could not see. At first glance, she seemed to be covered in blankets, but heavy ones. Judy could hardly breathe. Every draw of air burned. The edges of her ribcage felt weighed down, and she gasped once. Not again. Buried alive, she thought, buried alive and left to die. The bunny sat up as quickly as she could. Her feet kicked wildly now as they struggled against something she could not see or feel fully. Her sight vanished into a pit of light, akin to the aftermath of staring into the sun for too long. Judy blinked over and over again, to no avail, and felt something on her shoulder. She recoiled at once but it grasped at her again.   
  
"Ma'am, please calm down." Someone called from the side, "You're safe now." There was no comfort in the hollow assurance, and she continued to struggle, but her strength began to leave her, in waves, her legs settling into their allotted spaces of their own accord, and both her arms falling flatly beside one another on her lap, folding a part of the covers, "Can you hear me?" The voice asked, "If you can hear me, just nod."  
  
"Where am I?" She asked; the sunlight began to dim, and more definite shapes emerged from its edges; a bed, a hospital bed, and an empty, featureless room. She looked at her right arm. A pair of handcuffs sat on her right wrist. They kept her movements restrained. She pulled against them; they rattled and squeaked idly, metal on metal being dragged against the grip bar of the bed, "Where am I?"   
  
"Over here, ma'am." The pounding sensation in her head had grown more restrained, but it still stung, drawing her eyelids down with it, but she fought against it, struggling to stay awake. A pair of silhouettes stood beside the bed. She blinked. They took on a more pronounced shape. One sat on a chair, with its paws folded before itself. Another paced around her and took closer glances at her form. The sitting form waved. She could not recall why she did it, but she waved back, that being the first thing that occurred to her, "Everything will be explained soon." The animal speaking to her was a lion, clad in a suit, with a tie hanging from her neck, the absence of her mane indicating that she was proudly female. Her lips sat drawn into a half-smile, but with another blink, Judy ascertained that it wasn't a friendly one, but merely one intended to soothe the bunny.   
  
"Why am I in a hospital bed?" Judy asked, and the second form moved again; an ibex, smaller than most of his species, but with a pair of intelligent eyes and a chart in his hand. A long, white hospital coat hung from his shoulders, with a name-tag pinned to it. She attempted to read the lettering but it floated away. Judy relaxed again. The wide pillow was soft against her back. No struggle left in her any more, "Who are you?"  
  
"I'm agent Caplin of the PCID." The lioness said, and Judy nodded. She furiously searched for that acronym in her own dictionary. All she found was a stiff pain which shot across her forehead, "You're inside one of our safe houses."   
  
"PCID?" She asked, and Caplin nodded.   
  
"Pancontinentia Central Intelligence Division." She crossed one of her legs and adjusted her tie, and motioned to the doctor with her paw, expression suddenly turning serious, "That's Doctor Fuentes. He was the one overseeing your vitals while you were unconscious."  
  
"What happened?" Judy reached for her neck, trying to find that aching spot, and it gave a sharp sting in response, to which her paw recoiled, "How long was I out?"  
  
"Well, you've been here for about an hour. We secured you two hours ago." Caplin explained and stood, standing beside Fuentes at the foot of her bed, paws tucked neatly behind her back while she stole glances from her colleague's chart, "We're lucky to have gotten to you on time."  
  
"What are you talking about?" The words made sense to her, but she could not place them; she glanced between the two individuals, "What do you mean 'on time'?"  
  
"The evidence you collected from the ZPD's Central Precinct is invaluable to us. As a matter of fact..." The lioness turned to the door; a simple glass partition, revealing an equally featureless hallway with additional rooms, "We've got about a dozen analysts sorting through it right now."  
  
"I don't understand." Judy began, and took the room in for a second time; no decoration to speak of, and no windows, save for a television hanging directly in front of her, behind the heads of her captors, "Was I in danger?"  
  
"More danger than you can even imagine." Caplin assured her, and Fuentes gave a wordless nod to the lioness, to which she responded on equal terms. The doctor departed with the chart tucked neatly beneath his arm, "If we hadn't gotten to you first, Bogo would've. And then we'd have lost everything." A yellow-furred digit hovered before Judy and motioned towards the cuffs, "And sorry about...that. Standard procedure. We'll have it removed immediately."  
  
"Okay, let's take this from the top." Judy pulled her legs closer towards herself and crossed them beneath her haunches; for a moment, she was afraid of being nude, but one downward glance proved that she was clad in a hospital gown, "Because I am very fucking confused right now."  
  
"Of course." The lioness took her seat on the chair again and Judy turned towards her, "The Order of the New Dawn, or simply 'The Order' as they call themselves, have been a group of interest to us for some time now. Thelonious Bogo thought he covered his traces well, and for the most part he did, but we caught onto a pair of fraudulent banking slips." Judy nodded, "The counterfeiting department alerted us to it, and we began our investigation. That was a month ago. We were running around with our fur on fire here. Nothing made any sense. We'd open one door, and another ten would follow. You have to understand that we've run out of time, Judy."  
  
"How do you mean?" The bunny tilted her head to one side and watched as the lioness looked to the floor and gave a sigh; her voice was soft and comforting, but staunchly professional. Exactly how she imagined secret agents to be. In a flash, any sign of weakness was gone, and the feline's eyes were pointed back towards the bed. Failure stung. Judy felt herself give a weak nod. She couldn't say it, but she understood.   
  
"The more we looked into the matter, the clearer it became that something big was coming. We needed to hasten our efforts, but with as little as we had in the way of leads, that was difficult." Caplin rolled the base of her tie around her finger and watched it unspool itself, flattening out instantly, "You came to our attention less than four days ago. We tapped into your phone and your computer."  
  
"You what?!" Judy exclaimed and watched as Caplin raised her paws reassuringly, "You were spying on me? On us?"  
  
"You have to understand that there was nothing else we could do. Approaching you meant risking failure. We didn't know how you'd react." The lioness continued; Judy's mouth suddenly felt dry. They were being spied on the whole time, "Your breaking into the station was what tipped the scales. Before we didn't even know you had the key. We knew nothing. We didn't know who Otis Ritter was, or why his death mattered. And then the disk appeared."   
  
"Which you needed." Judy filled in, and Caplin gave an affirmative nod, "So you decided to kidnap me."  
  
"'Kidnap' is such a strong word, Judy. I prefer the term 'rescued'." The lioness cut in, and despite it being intended as a joke, neither party saw it fit to laugh, or even acknowledge it as such, "If we hadn't, you'd be dead now. As would your husband. You've given us everything we need to dismantle Bogo's operations. We're going to bury The Order and sentence all of them to life in prison. You're heroes, Judy. Who knows how many could've died at their paws. You've done your country a great service." Caplin cleared her throat, "And that's that."  
  
"That's it?" Judy asked, and the agent gave a nod, "That's all I get? You drug me, knock me out, drag my lifeless body out of my home, chain me to a bed, and this is all I get? A pat on the back?"  
  
"What more do you want?" Caplin asked with a shrug, "There's nothing else left for you to do." The lioness stood and stared blankly at the wall, "Your job is done. Go home and rest. Do what you've always wanted to do. Travel, go on a cruise, start a family, whatever you'd like. And soon, you won't even remember that any of this happened."  
  
"Fuck that, this is my war as much as its yours." Judy insisted; they took months of work as their own and left her just as helpless as she was when all of this began. And she would not allow that, "I want in." Two defiant purple eyes followed their captor around.  
  
"You want in?" Caplin glanced over her shoulder and gave a short, mocking chuckle, "If getting into the PCID was that easy, everyone would be an agent." She shook her head and walked to the edge of the bed again, "I don't think so, Judy. You'll be safe here for a few more days until we can seize Bogo proper. We'll bring your husband in too, as soon as we can. And as I've said before: that's that." The bunny drew breath, perparing a retort, but the sound of the door opening made both of them glance towards it. Fuentes pushed his way past Caplin and reached into his pocket. Even before he opened his mouth, Judy could see that he was visibly distraught; the fur of his forehead lay matted with a thin layer of sweat. He fished out a remote control. With a click, the television whirred to life, "What's the meaning of this?" Caplin asked and he turned to her, pushing her closer to the television and pointing towards it.  
  
"Look."  
  
The dark of screen grew into a series of images. Judy could not make out what it was at first. Two red lines framed the top and bottom of the screen respectively. It was a news broadcast. Between the two sat something she could not immediately quantify, at least not consciously; something in her mind barred her from crossing that line. Fire. Smoke. Shattered cars, spilling over one another. Rows of yellow cabs, with doors wide open, some burning, others already charred to cinders. Images taken from a helicopter. This was Stilton Street. Or at least it once was. Now it was home to scenes of chaos. Countless tiny dots rushed along the road, some knocking others over, fleeing in terror. Emergency vehicles lay parked everywhere. An ambulance jutted out from an alley with its rear pointed towards the street.   
  
At the top of the frame lay Currency Plaza. In the middle of it sat a hole. A gap. Nothing. Where once sat a mass of pavement and smooth concrete now lay a crater. The bill-boards which surrounded the epicentre leered and bent forward. Narrowing her eyes, Judy could see that not a single window sat in tact. The camera moved a little closer, but became lost in the smoke. Through the dense veil she could see countless fires burning below. Sirens blared from all sides, bereft of commentary. The lower red line bore a string of white letters; 'Breaking news: Explosions Rock Zootopia - Possible Terrorist Attack'. Her head suddenly became filled with air. She fell into the pillow wordlessly. Cold sweat took every inch of her fur. The image shrunk and shifted to the right, with the left part of the frame unrolling to reveal a reporter. Snow leopard, the same one she had seen a hundred times before; Louise something or other was her name. Her paws sat atop one another as they always did, but the state of her fur and the bags under her eyes spoke volumes about the current state of affairs. Badly-applied make-up left spots along the bristles of her cheeks. She was shoved in front of the camera and given a Teleprompter to read from. Breaking news.   
  
"...for the viewers just tuning into this at home, twenty minutes ago, what is assumed to be a high-yield explosive device detonated on the Palm Springs hotel turnpike. Multiple casualties were reported immediately, but roughly two minutes later, an additional to explosions occurred on different sides of the city. In the time since, we have received unconfirmed reports of just over fifty-five such blasts. Rescue personnel have been unavailable for commentary. Casualty projections are unavailable at this time." The snow leopard swallowed, "One of our...our on-ground crews was at Zootopia Central. We have not received word on them at this time."  
  
More images. The hotel. In the corner of the screen sat a small line of text reading 'live'. A tall structure resembling a palm tree, with vast glass petals hanging from its top, just beneath its lush, green canopy. Judy had seen it before, most notably from an excursion boat on the river. Now it was a ruin. The structure was wholly engulfed in flames, some of which scaled the sides of the brown glass trunk, with the majority of the damage having been sustained by the rotating deck at the top, housing a sight-seeing spot and a restaurant. The helicopter drew closer to the structure, and moments after establishing a hovering pattern, pulled back quickly. The camera lost focus for a moment. When the picture returned, it showed one of the petals loose itself from the core pillar and fall downwards, at least two hundred feet. Judy could see a mass of dots fleeing from the encroaching shadow. The audio picked up a calamitous, apocalyptic crunching sound. And then it cut out.   
  
"We apologize to the viewers at home for airing such graphic footage, but we once again remind you that these are live images from the air..." Judy's paws had clasped themselves over her mouth; tears streamed freely from her eyes. Her breaths turned to gasps. Nick. Nick was in there. He was at work, in the office. There wasn't a single part of her consciousness which she could control. Where was he? Was he safe? The alternative echoed inside her mind. The song of a choir more terrible. She couldn't lose him. Not like this.   
  
"By the Gods..." Caplin whispered, and turned to Fuentes, "This cannot be happening."  
  
"Look."  
  
Judy did not. Her paws found her ears and pressed against the gaps at their base, keeping them closed. Words passed her fingers. Words she never wanted to hear. Her eyes had closed themselves so tightly that they burned. Images. Casualties. Terror attack. Zootopia. Live.  
  
Nick.


	13. Blockbuster Night pt. 2

Popular culture always had an obsession with the apocalypse; the end of the world, the undoing of all things, set in motion by a series of mistakes at life's critical junctions. Every imagining of that was different, concerning both the outcome and those points of failure and weakness. Some envisioned an infection. Perhaps unleashed from a laboratory, a virus that is potent and devastating, spreading at an alarming rate through the populace with medical science struggling to keep up at every turn. At times, this would take a turn for the comically unrealistic, featuring shambling corpses that hound the living, with a small pawful of spunky survivors doing their best to stay alive in an unravelling reality. There were more realistic interpretations too, but those were more recent. Nick recalled the scenes in 'Contagion' as the paramedic unspooled a roll of gauze between his paws; limestone pits where the dead were buried with little ceremony, theft and vandalism running rampant, exposing the chilling reality behind a pandemic scenario.

Animal-kind reduced to its more basal instincts. The deeper the pit of apocalypticism went, the bleaker their scenarios became. Even in the case of an infection, the fictional world still bore some resemblance to the real one. But not in the case of a war; be it global Armageddon or localized attacks. This is where true darkness lived. Even humorous attempts at deconstructing the tropes of apocalyptic fiction broke down in the face of such horror. After all, an infection or a rock hurdling to space were hardly the fault of the unsuspecting creatures they would affect. But war was different. It was purposeful. And when it came to a point where nothing was sacred and everything was exposed to being utterly devastated by this conflict, that is when no humour could be derived from the situation. The horrible things characters do on-screen in a post-war scenario were merely offshoots of the nature that brought them there in the first place. Between the pounding headache he had developed, and these theoretical thoughts, Nick had forgotten about the paramedic entirely.

"This may sting a little." The beaver warned, and Nick offered a nod in response; there was no point in steeling himself for the burning that was sure to follow. After all, it was both inevitable and helpful, "You've got some shrapnel in your wound. Can you lie down for me?" Before the command was even complete, Nick had moved himself onto the ambulance stretcher. Lying down helped his muscles, and they relaxed, for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The stinging dullness which enveloped his very core sank down and left him; just like it did when he lay in bed at night. He glanced up a bit. Through his smudged vision he could see the beaver strap on a pair of latex gloves, reach for a pair of pincers, and move closer. Behind his head, the world was ablaze. The collapse of the office had sent dust in all directions, thick and red in colour, the product of smashed brickwork, and with the lights from the distant fires, its shade became reminiscent of brimstone. Nick considered asking the paramedic to close the door, but three more animals awaited treatment.

Emergency triage. No time for comfort or pleasantries. The beaver's lips were a line, a perfectly flat summary of what he must've felt. He had seen this in Judy, too. Instincts kick in, professional ones, where personal feelings no longer matter and all that remains is the goal at paw; save lives, or die trying. The beaver would most likely go home later that day, if he even had a home any more, and think about what he had seen. Experience was a bitter pill at times. He felt a tug on his flesh and hissed. Two sharp prongs hovering inches away from the point of impact, grabbing for the metal object within eagerly. He had lost sight of Hornetta. Four ambulances had arrived, and she was most likely receiving assistance from one of the other ones. Another tug, this time longer, and deeper, "I'm really sorry about this, but I need to save the anaesthetic for more serious cases."

"Don't worry about it, I understand." Nick exclaimed with a nod, "I've been through worse." To joke was nothing more than to lie with another tone of voice, he thought, and gasped a bit. The third tug was more firm and definitive, and almost vice-like in its application. It retracted quickly, and was swiftly followed by a feeling of deep, penetrating relief. He took a deep breath.

"Sir, please don't breathe deeply. You're moving the wound." The fox gave an affirmative twitch with his paw and took a series of quick, sharp breaths, holding between each. Small pin-pricks of pain followed, dulling with each stitch, and he could see a clear string hanging from the beaver's lips. Two more picks, and then the soothing feeling of gauze being applied generously, tied down with tape, "Done." The beaver ushered him off the stretcher, "I can take care of that laceration on your eyebrow as well, sir." The fox reached up and felt along the area, which brought out a faint burning sensation, but he refused with a shake of his head.

"Save the stitches. I'll be fine." He stepped off the tail-gate of the ambulance and walked forward, eyes fixed to the ground; his paws were swift to undo his tie and roll it along his digits; chequered red with black spots. Professional. No more events to wear it to. He tied it around his forehead like a bandana. The knot on the back felt tight, but it dulled the pain slightly. He would no doubt bleed through it, but gauze was a precious resource and he wasn't prepared to waste any on something as mundane as this. The emergency vehicles had formed a barricade of sorts, with ambulances facing backwards, doors open, and fire trucks standing by beside them, their lights spinning soundlessly. Hoses stretched into the clouds of dust, terminating in some place he could not see. Nick took a few steps forward and then stopped. Disjointed thoughts ran through his mind; Judy was still at home. The North Burrows were some distance away from the city centre, but there was no guarantee that they weren't targeted too. The fire fighter's words confirmed his worst fears: this was an attack. A calculated attack. Between the blaring of air raid sirens and the noises of his own thoughts, he could not make heads or tails of anything. The first thing he ought to do was go to the apartment and check whether the word 'home' still referred to an actual place in time, or whether it would all become a matter of memory now. He reached into his pocket. His phone had survived the blast undamaged. A thin film of dust covered the screen. The same procedure as last time; open the address book, and call the first contact. One bar of signal. Just enough to make the call. He pressed the device to his ear. It picked up immediately.

"Judy, are you there?" He called, but was greeted by a canned voice instead.

"...an automated message from TeleTopia Telecommunications Incorporated." Nick swore and lowered the device to look at the screen, "We request that you refrain from calling private numbers and keep the lines open for emergency use only. Thank you for choosing TeleTopia, have a good-" He hung up. His paws raised themselves and grasped the fur on the back of his head, keeping the phone pressed tightly between his fingers, and he gave a pained sigh; she was still alive. She had to be. He walked around the ambulance and towards the edge of the vehicular barrier; two police cars stood on the edge, bumper-to-bumper, tended to by four police officers; a rhino, and three wolves. They paced along a makeshift divider, made from traffic cones and wooden barricades, seemingly erected in a haste, and connected with yellow tape. He approached them and gave one of them a wave. The wolf raised his arm immediately, lifting it away from his belt.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stand back." The officer demanded and Nick gave a hasty shake of his head.

"My wife is a police officer." He explained, presenting his palms defensively, "I was wondering whether you had seen her."

"What's her name?"

"Judy Hopps." No response; Nick glanced between the four animals, "Judy Hopps? Bunny?" He placed one of his paws beside his right shoulder, holding it horizontally, to indicate height. The rhino looked away. All the wolf could do was shake his head.

"I'm sorry, sir." The officer responded, and gave a cough, "I'd check on our intranet, but there's too much traffic going 'round for the time being."

"Zimmer, dispatch still isn't responding." One of the other officers had moved towards the car nearest to Nick and ducked inside; he now leaned onto the roof with the microphone in his paw, glancing between his colleagues, "Vehicle-to-vehicle is down as well."

"Shit, are you sure?" The wolf turned away from Nick and stood, frozen, glancing about himself sceptically, eyes seemingly avoiding those of his fellow officers, "Alright, break out the big guns. I have a bad feeling about this." All Nick could do was watch in stunned silence as the officers armed themselves. Shotguns, four of them, cocked immediately, loaded with menacing red shells; he knew little about firearms besides what Judy had relayed to him, but he knew what a red shell meant: lethals. Shoot to kill. They dispersed around the barricade and knelt behind their cars, weapons pointed forward, towards the road.

The fox took a step back and then another one, retreating quickly. He returned back to the triage clearing. Two weasels sat with their backs to one of the ambulances, and one of them held onto his arm, trying to stifle the bleeding. The other, evidently his husband, attempted to calm him, their paws intertwined. A giraffe sat on the edge of one, being tended to by three paramedics that wrapped her spindly leg in a splint. Hornetta. A horrible weight formed in the pit of his stomach. The officer was right; he did have a bad feeling about this. The very same feeling he had less than an hour ago in the break room, before the world broke.

"Hornetta?" He called, and those present turned. The beaver that treated him earlier ducked his head out of the ambulance and pointed towards the far side of the road. Behind one of the fire trucks he could see a red and white roof, light shedding from it in all directions, outlined clearly against the lingering dust. He walked to it quickly. Sure enough, there she was; the gazelle sat on the pavement, cross-legged, and nursed her wounded arm with blank eyes, locked at nothing at all, staring through their surroundings, "Oh thank the Gods, I found you." He knelt beside her and placed a paw on her shoulder, but she did not move. The fine, white soot which covered both of them had lost its uniformity on her face, with her tears having made deep passages in it, jarring river-beds left behind by terror; her features revealed nothing. Not a single ounce of expression to be found anywhere. He gave her a soft shake, "Hornetta?"

"My friends call me 'Horny'." She responded, voice devoid of colour or joviality, distant and toneless, "I don't like that. I tell them not to, but they do it anyway. 'Horns' sounds so much better. It's what dad used to call me when I was little."

"Can you hear me?" No response, "Horns?" Now she turned to look at him, and even smiled slightly, visibly dazed, "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine, thank you." It was a canned, practised response, and it showed, "How're you?"

"Listen to me, I'm going to keep this short." He sat down beside her, his legs mirroring hers, ankles atop one another, and despite the pain that raced through his abdomen, he refused to move; show her you care. Make yourself as trustworthy as possible. There was ample time for explanations later, "Something really bad is about to happen." Hornetta nodded; her lips opened in preparation for a response, but were cut off by the sound of screeching tires. Nick stood to his feet abruptly. Shouting coming from the front of the barrier. He could see the edge of it clearly, "Wait here a moment, okay?" She nodded, "I'll be right back, I promise." Hornetta nodded again and went back to her blank gazing. Nick could not recall when he last ran this quickly. Maybe it was just another emergency vehicle, he told himself; another ambulance, come to ferry the wounded to the hospital. By the time he reached the last van, his thoughts turned to prayers; he was begging someone for that to be true. He did not know at whom his please were directed. It did not matter. To anyone who was listening.

The four officers remained where they were, but stood on up straight now, weapons raised. Nick ducked behind the ambulance and listened, stealing glances from around the corner, doing his best to see what they were pointing their guns at. A van stood parked in front of the barricade. It was an armoured police van, looking just like those he had seen on television; a square box on wheels, hanging low above the road, with rectangular proportions and narrow front-facing windows. But this one wasn't black like all the other ones. Instead its body had been painted in camouflage colours. Specks of black, grey, and white mingled with red, interspaced with narrow swaths of digitized black squares. He had seen this before. More shouting. The officers were commanding that whoever was inside leave the vehicle immediately, under threat of grave consequences. He grasped the edge of the ambulance with his paw. Behind him, the gathered survivors began talking in hushed voices, and he turned, calming them with his paw. To his surprise they quieted at once. When his gaze returned to the unknown vehicle, he saw that its doors had been opened. On either side of it stood four animals, clad in the very same camouflage pattern as their van. Long guns sat in their gloved paws, and their faces were concealed by heavy black gas-masks, chests adorned with countless pouches and compartments; each had at least nine magazines, and two grenades. Nick stifled a gasp. Bogo's men. No doubt about it. Now he could recall those colours clearly; same colours Bogo wore inside the office.

"Put your weapons down or we will fire!" One of the police officers commanded, but received no response; the four masked animals stood in pairs on either side of the armoured vehicle, completely nonplussed by the threat, "This is your final warning!"

"Drop 'em." The command was simple and clearly spoken, but drowned in static by means of a voice modulator. Four cracks followed. Surgical. The officers fell to the ground. One of them had his cap knocked off by the blast. The other three had been struck below the neck, two dying instantly. The last one, the rhino, his tough hide and corpulent build offering some protection, grasped at his chest helplessly, collapsing forward. Blood streamed from his wound, contrasting starkly with his blue uniform, and he attempted to crawl forward, towards one of the dropped guns. A heavy boot fell onto the weapon at once, "Good night." And that was all it took. Another crack. The rhino's form gave a sickening twitch.

"Unit nine, sector seven clear." Three of the soldiers made for the ambulances at once while a fourth hung back and clasped a paw over his ear, dictating something into his radio, his voice unnaturally metallic, hissing from behind the modulator, "Securing civilians now. Will report when sector is fully sterile, over." Nick moved away from the edge of the ambulance slowly. The soldiers approached them now, still shoulder-to-shoulder, moving in perfect synchronicity with one another, and stood at the edge of the clearing.

"You have nothing to fear." The one in the middle commanded; they were all of similar stature, covered from head to toe in their equipment, barring any means of identification, even species, "We will provide you with ample medical services and security. We will protect your possessions. We will reunite you with your families. Looters will be shot on sight."

"Who are you?" A frightened voice asked from behind; no doubt one of the weasels.

"We are The Order." The soldier on the left responded; their voices were just as indistinguishable from one another as their appearance, "Your government is behind these attacks. They are attempting to destabilize the region for their own political goals. In the face of such treachery, we have risen to protect the innocent and the weak from their corrupt masters." Nick's blood ran cold. His breath barely edged its way past his lips. He took a few steps back as quietly as he could. Fade back into the crowd. Don't let them see you. For once, he was grateful for his invisibility, "We will establish a new state, one of order and peace. Come with us, and all will be explained in due time. Stay, and you will perish at the hands of the government's butchers." By the time the soldier had finished his sentence, Nick was already on the other side of the clearing, and well out of sight. He exhaled a breath he did not know he was holding. Bogo's men. The Order. All doubt had left him. The Order of the New Dawn. Trisha had said that name clearly, and with ample hatred. Hornetta. Find Hornetta, and run. He fell onto his stomach and crawled forward, dragging himself under the ambulances. The longest four minutes of his life followed. The soldiers answered the survivors' questions quickly and precisely, in a rehearsed manner, deflecting those they deemed irrelevant.

Long pauses lay between each query. During each pause, Nick would freeze, expecting one of the armed assailants to claim he had seen something, or that there was one survivor less. But nothing came of it. More silence. Fear permeated the gathered group. Despite their promises, they had shout for officers of the law dead. Judy. He closed his eyes as he neared the edge of the last ambulance, Hornetta now fully in sight, still sitting where he left her, ears perked and listening to the chatter over the air raid sirens. His wound burned sharply. They were exterminating law enforcement personnel. If Judy had been deployed, she would be caught in the crossfire, too. Don't think about it, he reminded himself, now is not the time. Run. Take Hornetta and get the fuck out of Dodge. As quickly as you can, in whichever direction was the closest. He rocketed to his feet and made for her at once, pacing quickly. The hoses were still in the smoke. The fire fighters had no idea what transpired yet. There was no duality to the fate which awaited them once they returned. Medical personnel was useful to The Order. Captured and forced to work at gun-point, providing treatment to the wounded. But even that was uncertain. Focus, Nick. He took Hornetta's shoulder.

"Nick, what's happening?" She asked, her voice having regained some of its lustre, but still aptly distant, "I heard gunfire."

"Horns, do you trust me?"

"I don't understand..." The gazelle continued and he shook his head sharply.

"Not now." He commanded and tugged on her shoulder; she stood, just as unevenly as she did when he saved her life, "Do. You. Trust. Me?"

"Of course." That was all he needed. He pulled her healthy arm and made for the nearest door he could see, "There."

"Where are we going?" She pressed from behind him as he lifted his leg and took a step through the broken store-front window, "Who are we running from?"

"I'll explain everything soon, I promise." He responded. He lifted his feet carefully, and lowered them in a deliberate manner, taking great care to not step on any shards of broken glass; the last thing Nick needed now was another sharp reminder of the terror that unfolded around him, jammed between his toes. The shop they took shelter in was an old bookstore. Hard-covers mingled with paper-backs on the stained tiles. Everything had fallen, some no doubt dislodged by the force of their office collapsing, while others may have been spilled in the ensuing panic. They ventured deeper, until the light behind them had begun to fade, the sunlight already dimmed by the soot, until the darkness became absolute. The fox reached into his pocket and activated his phone's flashlight feature. He did not need it, with his vision working excellently regardless of the light levels around him, he did so for Hornetta's sake. It hovered before their faces. A circle of light illuminated a narrow space in front of them, with the cone capturing mere details of the chaos within. The till had been forced open and the money had been taken from inside, no doubt by the owner, in a last-ditch attempt to preserve his earthly belongings. Hornetta's grasp on his paw tightened, and he returned the motion, knuckles white from the pressure. Survive. Baser instincts. They would need a weapon.

With Nick's phone serving as their guide, the duo found the back exit, and a forceful kick opened it at once, into an alleyway. On one side, a chain-link fence barred their progress, but that led to the docks, which was the opposite direction to the one they were headed. Nick had subconsciously made for the apartment. That was the first place they would check. He considered going to the police station, but Bogo no doubt secured it some time ago, making sure that nothing stood in his path; it was a fortress. He turned to the street. The gap was narrow, but it allowed light in, and he locked his phone again. One of the street-lights had been knocked sideways by the shock-wave, and it blinked itself to sleep, wires partially exposed at its base and hissing idly. Hornetta cowered behind him. She lowered her head in an attempt to make herself as small as possible. Nick's head pounded.

The pain of sustained, rapid motion was excruciating, but there was no time to waste. Not a single moment to be spared. They reached the pavement quickly. Porter Avenue, he recalled, perpendicular to their office, or what was left of it. The fox looked to the right. A plume of dust and soot, rising from the devastated ruin, with a mass of cars shimmering at its edge, head-lights shining through the mist. On the left, nothing of mention. Intersections giving red lights to cars that would never come. A few abandoned vehicles. Someone sprinted across. Directly in front of them lay the entrance to the Zootopia Arcades, a massive passage intersecting two purpose-built blocks; home to a myriad stores covering all sorts of things, it lay bathed in darkness, with its broad windows mostly in-tact, save for a few cracks. A small, round fountain stood in front of it, still perfectly functional, the water coloured brown by the falling ash. The tall spires that hung above the entrance, made to look like the horns of wildebeest, bore no signs of the horror that surrounded them. Not even a single mark from the shrapnel. It looked almost normal.

"In here." He commanded, and Hornetta nodded. The duo ducked and made it across quickly. The door was unlocked. It swung open with a creak that echoed for what seemed like an eternity. All the stores were dark. The power must've gone out. Very little light passed through the tall glass ceiling, with most of the panes coated in a combination of dust and ash, and the tall, rising plumes of pitch-black smoke further obscured the sun. On the far side of the arcades lay its exit, a mere dot of light against a backdrop of utter blackness. Hornetta exhaled deeply, and then screamed. She had moved out from behind Nick, just in time to see a corpse leaning against one of the planters. The daylight fell along the security guard's face; feline, a tiger, slumped to his right, with his left still clutching a partially unloaded submachine gun. He wore a kevlar vest. Broad, red spots sat in the middle, with the bullets having cut through the protective garment like a hot knife through butter.

He spun on his heel and placed his paws on Hornetta's shoulders, calming her as best he could, but namely imploring her to be quiet. There was no telling as to what awaited them on the other side. She gave a series of rapid nods and breaths, and her composure began returning. She clasped her hand over her eyes and walked past the guard, and sat slack on one of the benches. This gave Nick enough time to loot the weapon. It was a small gun, looking like a toy in the tiger's cold paw, but it fit him perfectly. He picked it up, and inspected it for a moment; think of Claw of Duty. How does this work again? On the side sat a name, carved into the synthetic material; Ruttger-Zahne UMP 40. He knew this weapon, but in its 45 designation. You've made kill-streaks with this thing before. The operating mechanism was simple. When reloading, lift the cocking handle, remove the spent magazine, place a new one in it, and slap it down. Beside the security guard lay a pair of magazines, both full. He stuffed either into his pocket and swung the weapon's sling over his shoulder. He tapped Hornetta's shoulder. The gazelle gasped slightly at the sight of the gun and he nodded, "I know, but better safe than sorry."

They advanced once more, with him in front, and Hornetta ducked behind him, but slower this time. Nick held the weapon raised in front of himself and moved by keeping either of his paws close to one another, like he had seen done in movies; it looked clumsy, but he had the advantage of being able to respond to any threat rapidly. The gazelle's hands clung to his waist, ready to duck when he did. The light died around them. Hornetta reached into his pocket from behind and retrieved the phone, turning it on and keeping it steady just above his shoulders, moving it whenever he tilted the gun to the side. Stores exchanged themselves, some of which he had visited with Judy. There was no sound to be heard. Only the shuffle of the sling's fabric as it dragged itself across his shirt, and the clatter of magazines in his pocket, mingling with the sounds of their steps, namely hers, the hard hooves echoing across the tile. They reached the half-way point quickly. Another clearing. Nick paused and signalled for Hornetta to take cover, which she did at once, obediently nodding her head.

Fear had left her completely. Survive. Nick's whole form lay drenched in sweat. It dripped into his bandage, most likely soaking it, but he had no time to think about that, giving it a brief inward nod whenever he felt the wound tug. The fox half-expected a shot to arrive. Through a window, from the darkness. He wouldn't see it coming. And then he'd be dead. His paw tightened around the weapon's foregrip. No shot. No calamitous crack to speak of. Only silence, and the soft, impalpable hum of wind as it rolled its way through the desolate space. He motioned to his companion and she dove out of cover instantly, moving back behind him. They continued just as they had before. The dark halls grew colder the closer they got to the exit. He could feel her breaths turning shallow atop his head.

"...why the commander's got us guarding an empty mall." Robotic speech, drenched in static, just like before. Nick almost threw himself behind an overturned bench and Hornetta paced towards him uneasily, but he pulled her down. Her lips opened to protest, but he raised a finger to his own and hushed her; not a sound, he mouthed, "Hard to breathe in this thing."

"Don't question the commander." A second voice responded. Footsteps. The sound of rattling metal. Someone had knocked a trash can over, "Knock it off. Do you want everyone within ten miles to hear you?"

"Relax, Bauer." The first soldier retorted, "This is our day. We get to do whatever we want, to whoever."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." A laugh drifted through the air, reduced to a robotic stuttering sound, "I hope they send more cops our way. Fuckin' amateurs. Killin' em is almost too easy." Nick moved forward from a sitting position and gave a nod to Hornetta; don't move. She turned the light off. Bogo's men, but only two of them. If he could not be seen until the right moment, he could take his time lining up a shot, and get one of them immediately. The second one would fire back, but he wouldn't stand a chance in the darkness. Not against a fox.

Nick moved the gun onto his back, fastening the strap swiftly, and crawled forward. He held the magazines in either paw. Their rattling would be a certain tell. If need be, he could slide one across the ground and watch the soldiers scramble towards it. Then he'd get a clear shot on both, from behind. Too risky, he thought. They would split up. From what Nick had seen, they were impeccably trained, and distinguishing between a distraction and a threat was a matter of habit for sure. A planter housing a small palm tree sat not too far from the bench where Hornetta hid, and he ducked behind it, kneeling on its far side, roughly positioning himself so that the voices were directly in front of him. What he would do to have carrots with him now. Her hearing would not only be able to pin-point them exactly, but she could probably also tell him what size shoes they wore and whether or not they smoked. Judy. His wife's face flooded into his mind. He shook his head; not now. You're doing this for her, he reminded himself, to find her, and save her if need be. The voices spoke up again.

One of them told a joke, and the other laughed loudly, his modulator giving off the sound of a trash compactor. Get ready, he said, and nodded to himself. This could be it. This could be the very last thing you'll ever do. Not now. Nick stood to his feet and raised the weapon over the edge of the planter. The soldiers stood on the other side, facing one another. He was just ouside their peripheral vision. The white shirt truly wasn't helping now. His index finger slid down and sat on the trigger. Nick checked to see whether the safety was on earlier, and he promptly took it off, rendering the weapon ready to fire at the drop of a hat. Four seconds by his count, and they still hadn't noticed him. Their helmets bore side-mounted flash-lights, only one of which was on, with the other soldier, previously identified as Bauer, keeping his off. Nick swung his sights to the latter. One shot, and that would be that. He took a deep breath. Just like Sniper Elite. On the exhale, pull the trigger.

The crack was momentary, but extremely efficient. The soldier's paw flew up and he clasped his neck. A long, crimson jet shot out from it, and he collapsed, into a writhing pile. His colleague glanced down at once, asking whether he was okay twice before clearly realizing what happened. By the time he did, Nick had already ducked back into cover and moved to the other side. He could hear the first animal expiring on the ground. His modulator cracked and whistled, and collapsed into a series of quiet, static-riddled groans, fading into nothing. That's one. What does it feel like to take a life? If Nick had to answer that question in that precise moment, he would say 'ordinary'. The fox felt nothing. No time. Footsteps shuffled along the floor, mingling with the sound of fabric.

"Come out, you fucker." The voice commanded, "Come out so I can skin you alive." Nick glanced up along the edge of the planter. The soldier had turned his light off, and was wandering along the leading edge, weapon raised in front of him, muzzle peeking into every spare inch of space, "When I find you, I'm gonna make a necklace out of your fucking teeth." He was looking away. Nick saw his chance and took it.

In a flash, he had ducked along the outer edge and moved closer, behind the assailant now. The soldier was very close to Hornetta now. She ducked down as much as she could, but the very edge of her long, curved horns was visible, and if he came any closer, she would be spotted at once. Nick had to act. He lay down beside the planter, onto his stomach, and kept the weapon raised, pointing himself forward whilst still staying in cover. Behind him lay the body of the first soldier. He had given it a glance, but nothing more than that. One bullet. Probably about ten to spare. He closed his eyes. Let's do this one more time. With that, he rolled along his side, and back onto his stomach, sights snapping up at once and enveloping the soldier in his entirety. His form was clearly outlined by what little light streamed in from above. The pros and cons of gas masks. Pro: no-one can recognize you. Con: you can't see shit. He depressed the trigger again. This time, he unleashed a burst of about seven rounds. The bright, yellow trails which left the barrel embedded themselves in the soldier's skin, leaving behind puffs of crimson, invisible against the camouflage. His entire form rattled and shook, torn apart, moved by some invisible paw from above.

"Fuck..." The animal groaned and fell to his knees, clutching his chest, weapon on the ground. Nick stood to his feet and walked over. When he was close enough, he pulled the trigger one more time. Dead. Blood pooled around the corpse. Hornetta rose out from behind the bench; only now did he see how close the soldier got. Ten, maybe fifteen inches. A second longer and it would've all gone wrong.

"You okay?" He asked, and she nodded. He patted down each of the bodies for any useful equipment. Both men wore bandoliers, but they were far too large for both Nick and Hornetta. Instead, he took their side-arms; a pair of handguns. M92FS Growler. Standard issue, fifteen rounds. He had used one of these in countless modern shooter games. He clicked the magazine open, checked to see whether it had a fully loaded magazine, and satisfied with his findings, clasped it closed. It fit snugly into his pocket, beside his phone. The duo paused for a moment and he attempted to call Judy again. Same automated message. Nick sighed and shook his head, only to find a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I remember the reports from two years ago. Your wife is a badass." Hornetta commented, and he chuckled lightly, "If anyone in this damn city is still alive, it'll be her."

"I know." He said in response, and she gave a grateful nod, even managing a half-smile, but a genuine one this time; survive, "Let's keep moving."

In time, they reached the exit of the mall. Thankfully, the two soldiers were the only ones sent in, and Nick hoped that this would be their last run-in with them. He still commanded that they wait before approaching the Arcades' egress, and he slapped a new magazine into the weapon, passing Hornetta the spent one; now they wouldn't rattle against one another any-more.

"Give me a gun." The gazelle responded, and he tilted his head a bit, "I've played many roles in life, but a damsel in distress ain't one."

"Not the best time for comic book references, Horns." He said and they exchanged a pair of wry smiles, culminating in her gripping Nick's looted pistol, "Ready?"

"Ready."

They walked out of cover side-by-side now, with the gazelle pointing the weapon in front of herself at hip-level, rather clumsily, but with a great deal of determination. He stopped her, and showed her how to hold a pistol; line of sight down the irons, muzzle forward, in front of your face, hold onto it tightly so that it doesn't force itself out of your grasp. Using a gun with only one arm would harm her accuracy, but it was the best chance they had of surviving. They kept moving. The exit came into sight momentarily. The first thing they noticed as they approached the sliding doors was the devastation. This was the site of another blast for sure. Shattered glass spilled inwards from the empty frames, and beyond it lay a plethora of damaged vehicles, some on their side, all with their windows shattered. Bodies covered the ground. Hornetta did not scream this time. Her eyes went wide for a moment, just like Nick's, but they had to hurry; the simple answer was don't think about it. Directly to the left of the entrance lay a crater, on an intersection of four streets whose names Nick could not recall. Scattered around it were corpses, some bearing the signs of immediate death, blasted to shreds, whilst others left a trail of blood behind them, mute witnesses of their attempts to crawl to safety. A polar bear lay on his stomach beside an overturned car; the white SUV was pock-marked with bloodied paw-prints.

Beside him, a smaller bear of indeterminate gender. Shield your children first. Signs of struggle. Four gaping holes in the bear's back, and one in the infant's skull. Someone had put him down. Nick's stomach turned and he looked away. He knew whose work this was. The Order was 'sterilizing' the city as he had overheard, exterminating survivors that were too gravely wounded to be saved, or too young to be of any use to them. The gazelle froze; she noticed the child a second after Nick did. He waited out the sounds of her retching. The fox had a feeling that this was only the beginning. Another thing that struck Nick the moment they stepped outside was the silence. Gone were the sirens. Fires roared in the distance. The sound of ripping cardboard echoed through the air; gunfire; more casualties. Most likely law enforcement. Counter-terrorism units would've been deployed immediately, if they hadn't already been exterminated or indoctrinated. This was their fate, if they made it this far. Gunned down in cold blood on the streets of their own city. Hornetta's pale visage greeted him when he turned, and she hurried him across.

"There." She said, pointing towards something he could not see fully, "That's the sewer." Indeed, a hatch lay open on the street, leading to a storm drain. If they were to avoid further run-ins with The Order, the best way to do this would be to go underground, and make their way North. Nick had a compass on his phone. It would show them the right way to go. Head North, to the Burrows. Home free in no time at all.

"Never would've spotted that. Excellent." He said, and they walked towards it, ducked down slightly to avoid any incoming shots. Plenty of places for snipers to hide and take pot-shots at the innocent. Nick wouldn't put it above Bogo. That was his modus operandi after all; ruthless and without mercy. He lowered his leg into the drain, and took a moment to look up; black smoke everywhere, rising, trying to reach the heavens, blown apart thousands of feet above them, and cast towards the sea. He could see a scattered group of skyscrapers in the distance; Business District. One of them burned at one of the higher floors, with most of its upper part vanishing in the conflagration. A shining pane of glass loosed itself from its side and fell into some mute, distant place. The storm drain had a small ledge, upon which he stood now, and waited for Hornetta to follow. She bent her knee slightly. Something grasped their attention; a helicopter. Unmistakable whirring, deep and growling, produced by blades slicing through the air at an angle. Hornetta stood up straight immediately and raised her hands towards the air. Through a partition in the ruined intersection, Nick could see something oblong and blue emerge. It was a news chopper.

"Over here!" The gazelle called, and he reached for her ankle as quickly as he could manage, nearly knocking her down, "Nick, they're here to rescue us!"

"It's a news choppter, Horns. They don't have room. Get down before someone sees us!" He explained, and the helicopter hovered above them. He could see a square camera jutting beneath it, and he stood up too; maybe she was watching the news. Maybe she would see him. It was the best shot he had. He abandoned all reason and lept out of the drain, dancing up and down beside Hornetta, waving his arms about madly, and screaming his lungs out, "Judy! Judy, I'm alive!" He repeated, over and over again. The helicopter maintained its hovering pattern.

And then it exploded.

Nick hadn't quite seen where the shot came from, or who fired it; all he saw was a trail of white smoke emerging from one of the alleyways and striking the vehicle's side. The point of impact flowered into a red fireball. It began listing immediately, all four of its doors opening. One of the pilots fell out of it as it careened to the ground. It lost all balance and form, colliding with the lip of the crater with all the grace of a brick. The ensuing blast was forceful enough to knock them both down. His head struck the pavement with a great deal of force. He sat up, clutching the tie he tied around his head, and he turned to look behind himself. At least ten. Red camouflage, automatic weapons, and one in the middle with a launcher of some sort. They advanced quickly. Run. He tugged on Hornetta's arm. She looked up at once, her face bursting through the mist, nodding furiously. They hadn't seen them yet. He embraced her waist and rolled into the drain with her atop him. They fall into the dirt with a loud splash, and Hornetta knocked the drain grate closed with her foot.

"Not. A. Sound." He warned. She was heavy for a gazelle. He could hardly breathe beneath her weight, but there was no chance of moving without making noise. The pressure her body exerted on his made the wound on his abdomen thud in sequence, pulsing in tune with the rapid beating of his heart; he groaned softly. The weapon on his back dug into his shoulder-blades, having sunk into the soft mud by a minimal amount.

"...unit seve-niner-hotel responding, can confirm chopper neutralized." One of the soldiers stood directly above them, his boot on the drain, the assault rifle he carried slack over his shoulders and pointed directly at Hornetta's lower back, "Law enforcement fully terminated, civilians secured. Can confirm sector as sterile, over." The soldier turned away and a distant conversation ensued, which Nick could not fully hear due to Hornetta's laboured breaths. Her eyes were inches away, and unblinking, just like his own. Even the shift in his lungs sounded like a waterfall. The clatter of boots against cement became more pronounced and the patrol above them marched onwards, moving back the way they came from, evidently unable to advance due to the crater. Four cracks ensued, from some distance away, culminating in the rattle of bullets against metal. They were firing on the wreckage to ensure that no-one had survived. They spent another few minutes hiding. Hornetta was the first to move. She raised herself atop him slightly, her free hand sinking into the mud around his head, and she glanced away slightly, clearing her throat.

"Sorry about that." She said; he saw her wince. The fracture, "Hope I didn't choke you."

"S'fine. We're alive. That's what matters." Nick responded with a wave of his paw; to their right stood an endless tunnel of complete darkness, stretching into nothing at all. Just like the vents of the station, he recalled, and waited for Hornetta to roll off him, with her being the first to set hoof into this mire. He adjusted the tie around his forehead.

This was definitely his most stressful commute home.

* * *

"How much longer?" The ready-room was heavy with smoke; it was a simple establishment, hardly echoing the coolly professional atmosphere of the ward where Judy was taken at first. Simple metal tables lined the length of the concrete box, ventilated by means of four fans above their heads, spinning away as if noting at all was wrong. From the meek technicians flipping switches and adjusting incomprehensible dials, to the pacing analysts, carrying armfuls of papers, every animal within sight had a cigarette butt between their lips. Computers glowed along the metal surfaces, beeping and humming along as they worked. Keystrokes filled the air, broken by calls from across the room. Warnings, usherings of attention, calls for help; it all became a blur.

Judy composed herself since the news hit; roughly forty minutes ago, by her count. Each minute became an hour, and then a week. Nothing could drag her from the deep pit in which she found herself. She did not want to believe the reports. She couldn't. Zootopia wasn't just home, it was everything. The tears stopped soon, mostly because she had run out. There were no more tears to shed. The urge to cry remained, but she saw no purpose in it. Judy saw no purpose in anything any-more. In the time it took for her to leave the bed, and get dressed, which she did in some clothes the PCID had lying around in their locker room, and get into the ready room with Caplin, she made peace with one, simple thought. The one she never wanted to feel, to consider, or to even give a glance to until it became a fixture in their lives; but that was far into the future. Or at least she was certain it would be. A deathbed shared now became a fantasy.

Nicholas Wilde was dead.

First came shock. Hysteria. Refusal to abide by Caplin's requests that she calm herself. Threats of sedation by Fuentes, who was promptly barked at by the lioness. At least Caplin understood. To calm herself wasn't a command, but a request, to be fulfilled if possible. Then came anger. Fury. Blind fury, during which she swore and cursed at Thelonious Bogo, and at his damnable plans, and everything that he ever was. Judy hated him before, but only now was she sure that if she ever saw him, she would kill him. Justice was one thing, and so was a fair trial. But this creature had taken her husband from her. Bogo had undone her past, present, and future. She sat in the simple folding chair in silence, knees pulled close, eyes pointed at the ground, occasionally looking up to follow one of the messengers as they ran past her. The voices which echoed through the air meant nothing to her any-more. Dullness. The headache she woke with disappeared with the shock. There were too many emotions for her to quantify. Judy never felt her soul hurt before.

The very core of her being lay chained to some infernal place, unable to free itself, in perpetual agony. Images of Nick spun before her eyes. His smile, his scent, his whole being, every little piece of him a dot on some uncharted sky beyond, forever out of her grasp now. They may never find him in that chaos. They may never find that blank-eyed body which once housed the spirit she so adored, for whom she drew every breath, and whom she loved more than she ever loved herself. Judy glanced down at her ring-finger. A small, golden band, paw-tailored to the width of her digit. She turned it. It had never felt cold to her paw-pads before, even though she touched it rarely. It slipped off with ease. Two purple eyes skirted its inside. Now it was nothing more than another painful fragment of what once was.

Opposite her, a television entertained itself. It ran the same news channel as before, mostly winding through the footage they already showed, since the vast majority of their camera crews were either dead or missing. This was an admission by the channel itself. Judy did not care. For once, she could not bring herself to feel the pain of the world around her. Was she selfish? She wondered as much as she observed Caplin. The lioness sat beside one of the video walls, observing graph charts and assorted satellite imagery, none of which made any sense to Judy. Yes, she was selfish. This was bigger than her, bigger than the fact that she had lost her future, her husband, and her entire life in the inferno of one animal's madness. Nicholas Wilde was dead. His executioner was her former commissioner. Animals. And that's what Bogo was. He had truly lived up to the basal points of evolution from which they all stemmed, and which both he and Judy's parents vehemently denied: animals.

No room for softness, for love, for understanding in a world gone feral. She let her feet touch the ground again. The trousers were tight against her waist and she could hardly breathe, but she managed, so long as she kept her haunches outstretched. In a way, they never stood a chance. Not against the brutality of the world around them. In that moment, Judy felt utterly stupid. She drove this point home. She fought and fought for the idea of justice without once considering the cost, or the gravity of what they had agreed to; but it was a gravity shared. A deathbed for two. Now her city had become Tartarus come to life, and her husband was left to fend for himself in it. The next time she would see him would be on a metal table, to give the coroner a nod of affirmation; red fox. Nicholas Wilde. You loved wholesomely, lived each day as if it were your last, and gave me everything I could've ever wanted; and just like everything else, you were taken from me. Selfish.

Now the end stood before her, as bare as the day she made that incision on her wrist. Everyone in the PCID had a gun. Requisitioning one would be as simple as asking Caplin to borrow hers, or perhaps going to look for one was easier. Either way, it was a triviality. From there it was a matter of locking herself in the bathroom, angling the barrel upwards, and pulling the trigger; aim at the spot where your skull meets your spine, she recalled, having read that in some dark place on the internet. Certain, momentary death, painless for the most part, and just instant enough for it not to matter. Judy rolled her tongue back in her head and attempted to feel that place, where she could put the bullet. Nick was dead. There was no point to living any more. Her whole life, Judy considered herself a strong, and independent woman, an individual, but bound to Nick by a wov of undying love and eternal devotion, just like he was to her; it did not make her any less of an individual. Her thoughts and her body were still her own.

But she had not understood just how much of her lived within him. How much his spirit complemented hers. A world without Nick was not a world worth living in. He was the repository for her entire being; her most intimate secrets, her most radiant moments, her most painful failures, all immortalized in that fickle, failure-prone camera that was his mind. Now she carried those pieces of him alone. Each gave as much as they took. Rather than become less, she became more. One whole bunny, and half of a fox, living in the same body. In the same space in time. One bullet, and she would meet him again. They would be whole at last. He did not believe in the Gods, and neither did she; not for two weeks now. But the Fables presented a chance. The slimmest chance she would ever have, but still a chance, of holding him somewhere beyond, in the aether, their molecules dancing together for all eternity. Now was the time. No note was needed. Who would read it?

"...we have lost contact with all of our choppers ten minutes ago." The words drifted into her ears, and she decided that she may as well spend the last moments of her life watching television, "We have reviewed the footage with a panel of experts and made some shocking discoveries." Upon hearing this, even Caplin, who had regarded the news channel with a degree of professional distance and disinterest for some time now, turned and watched, "Here is the full footage of the helicopter crash."

The footage in question showed the helicopter drifting in from a street near the Zootopia Arcades, taking a wide-angle shot of a bombing crater, and hovering just above it, camera fixed down Woodward Avenue, taking in the sights. Death and devastation lay blurred out at the very lip of the crater, but beyond it, everything was visible. In the distance, a group of spots approached, backed by what looked like armoured vehicles. Judy's eyes went wide for a moment, with something akin to surprise, but as dull as everything else. The closer they got, the more familiar the camouflage pattern became. And then she saw something. It began small, in the bottom left corner of the shot. Two individuals. Judy narrowed her eyes, squinting, and stood, approaching the television. Her arms felt numb. One of them she could not recognize, but immediately placed to be a gazelle. The second is the one that grasped her fully: white shirt, bloodstained, but definitely familiar, and orange fur. The form rose out of what looked like a storm drain and began jumping directly in front of the camera. It zoomed in on the approaching dots, those with the armoured vehicles, and had inadvertently captured a frame of the familiar animal's face; Nick. That was Nick. There was no doubt about it. He was waving his arms about madly. The footage was loud, and all the microphone picked up was the whirr of the blades, but Judy could swear that she heard someone call her name. Repeatedly.

The bunny was frozen in place. She could not move, or think, or perceive anything beyond the flash of orange fur she had just seen. She reached up and rubbed her eyes with her paws, and then turned to Caplin. This had to be a dream. There was no way that it wasn't a dream. The rest of the footage

"Did you see an orange fox jumping in the frame?" She asked softly, and Caplin gave an affirmative nod, "Oh. So I'm not crazy."

"Why?" The lioness asked and took another drag on her cigarette, "Do you know him?"

"Yes." Judy responded; less than one minute ago, she was convinced that he was dead. Now he was jumping up and down in front of the camera, "That's my husband."

The lioness observed Judy calmly, not batting an eyelash, not even as the latter screamed at the top of her lungs and began laughing as loudly as she could manage. There had never been a moment in her life before this one where her feelings went from two extremes so quickly. At one moment, her entire being was filled with cement, logged down at the bottom of some impossibly cold lake from which she would never arise again, and now she felt impossibly free, lighter than the air itself. Tears of relief streamed down her face. The future resumed in brilliant images, playing on the backs of her closed eyelids. Children, a lasting home, and a timely, shared demise, from old age and nothing else, not at the paws of butchers. From the names they discussed for their adopted offspring in some happier time, to the frames she knew by heart, stills from her wedding tape, there was not a single part of her being that wasn't wholly preoccupied with the idea that he was still alive. Judy reached into her pocket, took her wedding band out, and slipped it onto her finger; it was warm once more. She turned to Caplin, paws in front of herself, holding onto something invisible.

"He's...he's fucking alive!" She cried, and Caplin nodded to that, reaching over and giving her shoulder a pat, "My husband is alive!"

"Congratul-" The lioness cut her words short and stood, pushing the bunny aside less than gently, and with a wave of her paw, called her staff over, "What the fuck?"

"What?" Judy asked, still smiling from ear to ear, wiping her tears aside with her paw; all around her, bodies massed like trunks in a forest of sorts, much taller than she was, and stared at the screen, "Is it more good news?"

"This doesn't make any sense." One of the analysits commented, with no-one having heard the bunny, "Is everyone else seeing this?" Judy pushed her way to the front of the crowd, squeezing her way through between towering leopards and bulls, and she froze in front of the screen.

"No. Fucking. Way." Caplin commented. A cigarette dropped down beside Judy, loosed by a pair of slackening digits.

"...we've circled the area of interest in red. With the help of our analysts, we've concluded with some certainty that the individuals pictured are not law enforcement or military personnel. Their affiliation is unknown at this time." The frame on the screen was a frozen shot from seconds before the chopper hit the ground, but clear, as if it were taken by a paw-held camera, blurred only slightly at the edges and tilted at an angle; in the middle of the shot stood maybe two dozen individuals, heavily armed, clad in red camouflage clothing and gas masks, walking steadily towards the crash site. A red circle appeared around one of the soldiers, along with an arrow pointing to his shoulder, "We have reason to believe that this is the individual that shot down our news helicopter. According to our attached military expert, he is carrying an RPG-7 shoulder-based anti-tank launcher. We would like to inform the viewers that this is not a weapon that is of standard issue to any branch of Pancontinentia's armed forces."

"No fucking way." Someone else echoed again; that would be the last time anyone would speak for the next ten minutes. All they did was watch the rest of the analysis mutely, including an interview with an individual that claimed to have served in a special branch of the military, explaining how the launcher is commonly associated with terrorists, irregular forces, and insurgents, and that it must've been obtained illegaly, as owning one, or any firearm for that matter, was a criminal felony. Caplin's breaths turned audibly deep, and given that she was standing directly to the right of Judy, the bunny could see her face tense up from below. Still expressionless, but by will rather than by habit. Judy imagined that, if she were free to rave and rant about the situation, she'd have plenty to say on the matter. Imagination gave rise to reality after a moment as Caplin spoke up.

"How the fuck are we getting this from a news channel? Where the fuck is our intel?" The lioness broke from the crowd and made for one of the video desks, hammering keys on it until it began beeping; she was making a call, "Oh I hope you pick the fuck up so I can tear you a new one..." The end of that sentence was met by a throat-clearing from the agent as a face appeared on the video wall; it was of a bull clad in an olive green suit, obviously military uniform, complete with an impressive stack of ribbons and a pair of medals. He appeared rather unwilling to talk at the present moment. Sweat drenched his brow and he looked visibly uneasy. This did not deter Caplin in the slightest, "General commander Carter, this is agent Jennifer Caplin of the PCID speaking."

"Yes, hello, agent Caplin." The bull greeted, and gave a respectful nod, moving off-camera for a second to give an order to someone; when he leaned back in, everyone had joined Caplin at the communications table, including Judy, who stood at the front again, for no other reason than to be seen, "How may I help you?"

"Don't give me that shit, Carter. Do you have any idea..." The lioness pointed behind herself sharply and a pair of cheetahs ducked out of the way as quickly as they could manage, only narrowly avoiding getting hit in the face by her, "What the fuck is going down in Zootopia?"

"First of all, Caplin, I don't appreciate that sort of language." The bull stiffened his posture, "While I can understand your frustration..."

"Answer the fucking question." She demanded, and he jumped back slightly, pausing only to adjust his tie and lapel, "Do you have any clue, even the faintest one, of what the fuck is going on down there?"

"We're sending the Federal Guard in now." The general insisted and leaned forward, mirroring the lioness' posture, "Of course I fucking do."

"Oh, do you?" She asked, and crossed her arms defiantly, "If you do, why are you sending the Guard in, then?"

"To contain the situation and bolster police forces." Caplin smirked; she had him now. It became obvious to everyone present that Carter not only had no idea of the actual circumstances, he most likely did not even bother turning the news on, "Why? Have there been developments?"

"Knowing that is your job, you meandering shit-stain, not mine." The bull looked away; he outranked her significantly, but he could not protest without admitting that he and his team made a mistake. Judy had seen this before, just on a more localized scale. Never concerning the fate of the entirety of Pancontinentia, "We've got unknown, unidentified boots on the ground in the AO. Not ours, not yours. Foreign."

"Oh, really?" The bull leaned back and placed his hands on his hips, and he even gave a mocking grin, "And where'd you get that intel from? 'Cause we don't have anything that would suggest a foreign military presence in the city."

"We got it from...no, wait. I just wanna make sure you're ready for this, 'cause I'm about to ruin your fucking life." Carter rolled his eyes sharply at that and she laughed maliciously, "CPNN." The commander general of Pancontinentia's entire armed forces was in the middle of taking a sip of water when she said those three letters, and spat out a mouthful as a result. Judy couldn't help but mirror Caplin's utterly mad grin; she had never seen an organic spit-take before, "Surprised?"

"Paulsen, be a good fellow and...relay this call to my office. Discreetly, if you will." General Carter hurriedly adjusted his tie and the connection closed itself at once. A moment of silence ocurred between the staff of the PCID, which quickly turned to applause.

"Thank you, thank you." Caplin said, and took a bow; for the first time since they met, Judy saw the lioness smile in earnest. Finally, an emotion other than distance, "I'm here all week."

The conversation that followed, handled between Carter, Caplin, two unnamed analysts on either end, and with Judy watching from the side-lines, took mere minutes to end up nowhere. They knew that the city was under attack by a reasonably organized armed force, but one which they had no information on what so ever. The shooting down of the helicopters proved as much. Theories ranged from a renegade force of armed civilians to a well-organized offensive by a foreign state, but by the time the latter theory was suggested, both Caplin and Carter sank into an uncomfortable silence. Judy closed her eyes for a moment and thought back. That camouflage. She knew it. The last twelve hours had been so filled with trauma that the details lay pushed back into the rear of her consciousness, but she recalled it; it was unmistakeably distinct. The revelation came to her in a flash. Trisha. The Order of the New Dawn. Bogo's men. Of course. Judy slapped herself inwardly at least five times before cutting into the conversation with absolutely zero regard for etiquette, just as Carter was giving a long-winded speech about protecting his own country.

"I know who these guys are." Four pairs of eyes turned to her at once; Carter bit his lip with restrained fury. After all, how dare she, a simple bunny civilian, interrupt him? Judy did not care, "Thelonious Bogo is at the helm of a movement known as The Order of the New Dawn. They're a paramilitary organization."

"She's right." Caplin pointed to the bunny, "By the Gods, she's right. She looked into that drive. She knows everything."

"Not everything, but I know who they are, and what they're doing." Judy retorted, but the damage was done; Caplin was already commanding that they parse the disk quicker, and extract all useful information from it by doing a surface scan for a series of terms, "I was going to tell you that but I thought my husband had died and..." She stammered, but felt a paw on her shoulder.

"Trust me, you did excellently. This was all we needed. The missing piece." The lioness reached for a pen and a piece of paper, "What are they called again?"

"The Order of the New Dawn, or just 'The Order' for short." She explained and Caplin took each word in with a furious nod; meanwhile, Carter was sinking into himself in the background, playing with one of the pens on his desk, "I am fully certain that they're behind this attack. You'll find ample evidence of that in a folder named 'Targets'." Caplin stood on her toes as she heard Judy say that and yelled at an analyst from across the room, calling him by name and stopping him just sort of leaving the room, simply to give him a clear search term, "I had no idea that they would deploy actual troops, but it makes sense, seeing as they're attempting to usher in a revolution."

"I see." The bull spoke up from the other end of the call, "And you wouldn't know anything about how many of them there are or how much equipment they have?"

"All I managed to read before I was knocked unconscious was that they ordered about ten thousand rifles..." Judy pressed her chin into her palm and thought back, "HS Produkt something or other, I believe."

"Ten thousand..." Carter echoed the number, and motioned towards his own assistant, giving him hurried, hushed instructions, "...make sure you get us clear sattelite images of the area. Look for armoured vehicles, anti-aircraft emplacements, anything and everything you can find." The assistant nodded and departed mutely, "Jenny..." The bull began.

"Judy." She corrected him.

"Apologies. Judy..." With his ceremonial opening ruined, he started anew as best he could manage, "You have done us all a great service. You've saved..."

"Heard it all before." The bunny waved her paw at him and laughed proudly; putting Carter in his place felt right given Caplin's company, and the lioness affirmed her actions with a nod, reaching a paw under the desk, awaiting a slap from Judy. She smiled upon receiving it. Judy low-fived a secret agent. This had always been one of her clandestine dreams in life; well, a high five, but she thought that it was close enough, "What's the plan?" Caplin closed the video link with a slap of the space bar, not even waiting to say good-bye to the general, and turned around, making for the far side of the room. Judy followed her instantly.

"Depends." Caplin shot back, still as cheap on words as ever; she looked at one of her aides, "How quickly can you get me a chopper?"

"We've got one fueled up and ready to go now, ma'am." The bear responded, giving his watch a glance, and then giving both of them a nod, "Should be just enough room for the both of you."

"Excellent." The lioness pulled on the lanyard around her neck, producing an ID card, and she slammed it against the scanner; the door slipped open at once, and she flipped a switch, to keep it that way in case anyone needed to come and go freely; with Judy out of the safe house, there were no third parties left to speak of. Only other agents, "You and I are going to set up a forward listening post as close as we can to this mess. You know the enemy, and I know the procedure."

"What about earlier?" Judy asked as they paced down a hallway quickly, signs passing by their heads, one of which read 'helipad', "When you said I couldn't get in on this?"

"Do you want a written apology or should I just demonstratively eat my own words?" She stopped in front of an elevator sharply, and with Judy having her eyes turned to the agent, the bunny nearly bumped into the door. She held onto herself however, and gave as professional as a nod as she could manage, "Trust me, I know when I'm licked." Caplin slammed the button repeatedly, "Oh, and you'll be the first to know when your husband is extracted. We'll make that a top priority."

"Really?" Judy asked wide-eyed, and Caplin gave a nod, features as stiff as they always were, but breaking into the very faintest smile, "I cannot thank you enough."

"Consider it your reward for the fine job you did with the disk." The agent crossed her arms, "So, how does a pat on the back feel now?"

"Fucking amazing, ma'am."


	14. Blockbuster Night pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all of my amazing kudos-givers and book-markers!
> 
> Firstly, explanations and apologies are in order. Some time ago, I promised to update this story once every two days, and I maintained that rigorous schedule with ease. But then I stopped, on the 22nd of March. An update had already been overdue by a day, which was caused by unrelated personal problems, but I was going to write a short introduction explaining why it was delayed. However, my plans changed rapidly. What's so special about the 22nd of March, you may ask.
> 
> Europe was attacked again that day, Brussels specifically. I live an hour away from Brussels, in Maastricht. My parents were due to visit me on friday, and due to land on that very same airport. Thankfully, they did arrive with one day's delay, but shaken none the less. Terror descended upon everyone and everything. If I were to say that I myself was not afraid, I'd be lying. Maastricht University is the largest of its kind in the Benelux area, a melting pot of cultures from all around the globe, and a place of learning; and fears arose about the possibility of an attack. Armed men walked in the streets. No-one felt safe.
> 
> I simply did not think it appropriate to release a new chapter of my fic at the time. The entire Blockbuster Night cycle explores terrorism in a thoroughly detailed and gruesome manner, and as I've posted on my Tumblr, I did not feel comfortable continuing it at the time. However, I believe things have calmed down enough now, and with the police investigation into the attack already well under way, I figured I'd continue.
> 
> From here, it'll be the same routine as always. One chapter every two days. I'll most likely have to take at least five days off next week for a hospital-based procedure, but I assure you that beyond these delays, all further chapters will be punctual.
> 
> Anyway, that's enough from me. Do enjoy this chapter, and have fun reading it! Once again, leave kudos, book-mark, or review the story if you've liked it, as all three help me immensely, and I respond to all reviews. I appreciate all of you so, so very much, and thank you for reading, truly!
> 
> (Psst, there'll also be an audiobook out soon if you like to have your soul crushed while driving or cooking or something.)

There were places in the city that no-one dared to go. Riddled with legend and folklore, these curious spots stood empty, perpetually forgotten in the minds of those that dwelt above, below, or beside them. Superficially, it was a simple matter of them having been erased, their purpose rendered inscrutable by the passage of time, and their once-living halls left desolate, for none but spectres to haunt. But each family that lived near one, and whose offspring had just reached that marvellous age of exploration and endeavour, where not a single crack in the pavement went unscrutinised, and something as banal as an old, unhinged chain-link fence may appear to be some heavenly call to adventure, each of those families had within themselves circulated stories of these places. They were cautionary tales, passed from generation to generation, and sometimes not even told directly, but conveyed by means of happenstance and earshot, woven in a way which would deter these wandering souls from ever wanting to approach the crevices to which they felt so irresistibly drawn.

To the children of the middle city, that place was the sewers; Pancontinentia had eliminated its problem of homelessness decades ago, in the aftermath of the war through a sustained campaign of basic income and social housing, and consequently not even the dispossessed dwelt there. This created a void of sorts. A massive complex of tunnels spanned the entirety of Paradise Island, the landmass upon which Zootopia's beating heart sat, populated by naught but the rush of water and the whistling wind. This is where the veins of Nick's world ran. Countless miles of fibre-optic cable, gas mains, electricity pylons exchanged themselves within the subterranean void. You'll get lost there, he'd hear sometimes, words uttered by a father's firm lip, and directed at his progeny; children have vanished there before. And while he could not imagine a prepubescent explorer daring to venture very deeply into it, he could clearly see how some could lose their path within these bowels. The path leading down from the storm drain became increasingly narrow and tilted forward, but both he and Hornetta could still walk on the mud, provided they clung to both one another and the walls surrounding them. The darker it became, the more firm his headache turned; the exchange between light and dark they had gone through had a profound effect on his well-being, and at one point he even felt pangs of vertigo, but with a breath, the fox steeled himself and pressed onwards.

"I can't see shit." Hornetta complained, and he gave a nod in response, aware that she could not see him; her voice echoed back seven times before it disappeared fully.

"I know." He felt his right foot sink into the dirt slightly and he took another step. This was his procedure. Slow and steady. There was no telling of how the path would turn out in the end. Perhaps they would face a drop, or a narrowing in the walls to the point where their sole escape was to turn back and continue hiding at the edge of the street, "That's why I'm going first."

Just moments before the walls made any advance impossible and he turned sideways, he felt his foot strike something more solid. Nick gave a probing touch with his claw. It clattered against what sounded like metal; a walkway. No telling what state it was in, but it was the best chance they had. Once again, he went first. With a nod towards Hornetta, he released her hand and wound the corner. Steel creaked beneath him. Don't collapse, he repeated to himself, don't collapse. Ten seconds later, it was still solid. He glanced down. Through the grey tint of his natural night vision, Nick could clearly see the walkway; surprisingly untouched for its age, and relatively firm-looking. He reached along the wall again and tapped Hornetta's arm; she whimpered softly.

"Sorry, didn't know it was your bad arm." He said, and she stood beside him, shaking her head.

"Where are we?" The gazelle questioned and Nick shrugged, "This place is massive." She had come to that conclusion through sound alone, but it was the correct one. Above them stood a massive suspended ceiling, held up by steel girders which were easily fifty feet tall, marred by age, but sturdy-looking, their appearance bolstered by the plain concrete which connected each beam. The space vanished into a void at its base, but Nick could see the faint shimmer of moisture; water, stagnant. This is where the storm drains ended up, most likely siphoning whatever they collected back into the water table. It was a rather ingenious solution, he thought as he felt his way along the walkway. Both of them kept their backs as close to the wall as possible. The railing looked firm, but its appearance could turn deceptive in an instant, and Nick kept his mind as sharp as he could manage it. He ran his right arm ahead of himself, probing and feeling along the concrete for a ledge. If the steel grate did give way, perhaps he could hang onto it for a few precious moment before casting his and Hornetta's fates into the arms of gravity; and the hope that whatever lay below provided some degree of buffer. It took them ten minutes to cross from one side to the other. Nick spotted their exit momentarily. A vast, rusted water pipe leading further down, angled as well, but less so. According to the fox's internal compass, they were heading North. Once he was on solid ground, he would check to make sure. One glance at the screen of his phone confirmed that to be the case. The pipe lead due North.

"Creepy." Hornetta whispered; he passed her the phone and let her switch the light on, for the sake of comfort rather than any actual guidance. His eyes were all they needed in case the battery died, but he could feel her shivering in his grasp moments earlier, and a single split-second of unease could lead to both of them falling to their deaths.

"I didn't even know this existed." The fox added, and looked about himself; the pipe extended into the darkness ahead, far beyond both the shine of their makeshift flash-light, and the range of his eyes, "I mean, I knew that the sewers were a thing of course, but I never knew just how large they were."

"It looks abandoned." She commented further, and he could hear the rustle of her shirt as she glanced about herself, "Can't imagine many animals venture down here for any reason."

"Probably just technicians." A rustle echoed to their right and Nick snapped his gaze to it instantly, his paw reaching for his weapon; by the time he had a firm grasp on the grip, he had sighted the cause of the noise; a feral rat, "And vermin."

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Hornetta said, and Nick gave a nod, "Don't want to get lost down here."

"The compass is our safest bet. We head North as far as we can, and if we don't find a way out, we'll turn back and look for one." He swung the submachine gun around, unlocked the magazine, and gave it a glance. Two forty-five calibre bullets shone back, stacked on top of one another, and tilting the column revealed them to extend farther down. More than enough, should someone find them here, "Either way, we need to get to my apartment." He paused for a moment, "I...I need to get to my apartment. You can go back if you like. If you've got anyone you want to find. I'd offer to come with you, but..." A sigh slipped his lips and continued drifting through the stale air until its echo became nothing at all, "I need to get to Judy as quickly as I can." He felt that comforting hand on his shoulder, and turning around, he could see Hornetta smiling in the darkness, the edges of her face illuminated by the flash-light she held.

"Nick, I don't have anyone. Trust me. If I did, I would've offered we split up a long time ago. Why do you think I followed you this far?" She nudged him forward and he nodded obediently, moving forward whilst she kept talking, "What few friends I had were more or less acquaintances. Animals I'd greet here and there, but none of them really knew me, and I never really knew any of them."

"That's..." He offered weakly, and she responded with a light shrug.

"I never really needed friends either. My best friend from childhood, a red panda named Robin, lives on the North Coast, in a small town called Allardyce Cove." The pair turned left, following the pipe, her hooves echoing sharply against the tin, "We MuzzleTime often, and that's about it. She's safe now, I imagine."

"No family living here?" He continued and she gave another shake of her head.

"My father is still at home, and my mother..." The gazelle gave a pained sigh, "She's gone."

"I'm sorry." Nick replied, "We don't have to talk about her."

"Actually, I don't mind." Her sunny disposition and tone hid something, which he caught onto; there was pain here, "It brings me closer to home, and trust me, right now I could really use a hefty dose of just that." The pipe ahead ventured into darkness once more, and kept its downward trajectory, but the slope was gentle enough for neither of them to hold onto anything, "She died of cancer when I was barely twelve years old. But she was a fighter. Always taught me that no matter what, you keep going." After a few moments, she began walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him, or as much as her stature allowed her to, the gazelle significantly taller than Nick, but evidently no longer concerned about anything finding them, "Sometimes I find it hard to believe that she's gone, even though I'm nearly twenty-five now."

"I know the feeling." Nick echoed, and he felt his paw scale the front of his shirt, releasing the weapon's grip as it sought his wound, applying only the smallest amount of pressure to it; father, "Sometimes you move on, and sometimes you don't." He glanced away, and then back to her, "I find it strange that we never really, y'know...talked."

"I find it strange that we're talking now." Hornetta said and gave a chuckle, "I find it strange how neither of us is dead, and that we've managed to stay alive for as long as we did. But hey, today is full of surprises."

"Don't knock it just yet." He added, smiling at her, and she shone the light on him. Her own expression mirrored his, but somehow differently. It was a genuine smile, the first he had ever seen out of her, and it was a rather stunning one, too. Just as warm and receptive as he imagined it to be, but no longer propped-up by a pair of imaginary toothpicks, "I meant as in...outside of the office and such."

"Well, I'm rather shy usually." She expounded, her healthy left crossed over her chest while her shattered right hung limply by her side, "So even if you did try and ask me out for drinks, I'd probably refuse. What have I got to offer you anyway?"

"Don't say that." Nick said after a moment of silence, and they slowly crept towards the far side of the pipe, where a round spot of darkness greeted them, evidently an exit; a gust of air rushed along their ears and Hornetta coughed; motes of dust hovered about them, "We must be close to some sort of vent."

"Yeah." He thought about raising his weapon for a moment but decided against it; the palm of his paw grew slick with sweat, and his muscles tensed, ready to respond at a moment's notice, but the gusting breeze continued without interruption.

They approached the edge tentatively, and Nick heard the shuffle of Hornetta's hooves as she stood just a little closer to him. The fox peered over the edge and glanced downwards; darkness, sprawling into nothingness, without limit or borders. He motioned towards his companion and she switched the flash-light on the phone on, illuminating the space beneath them. On the edge, just a step beneath them, a ladder lay folded, locked into position and raised. Beyond it, he could see nothing, not even with his night vision being what it is. The gap between one end and the other must've been massive. No light to come from above; the bowels, he thought. After a moment of observing, he noticed something. A flash. His muscles sprang into action and he pushed Hornetta back slightly, having recoiled away from the edge, but the silence was consuming. He peered over the edge again. Another flash. This one cast shadows resembling windows against the ground, but vanished as quickly as it had appeared, more momentary than the burst of a camera going off.

"What do you think is down there?" The gazelle asked concernedly and she shrugged, "I hope that ladder is sturdy."

Nick went first. He leaned off the edge of the step and gave the ladder a kick. The sound of crunching metal echoed through the vast emptiness of the reservoir, screeching and groaning as the device unfolded itself, and coming to a stop with a rattle, evidently having fixed itself in position. The first rung felt sturdy. Nick swayed his submachine gun over his shoulder and let it fall behind himself. Once he made sure that it was safe on his back, he began his descent. His eyes narrowed themselves as he peered into the flash-light. Hornetta moved it away, having noticed immediately, and sat on the edge, watching as his paws grasped each of the rusty rungs. A few moments later, he had vanished. He could still see her, but he knew that she couldn't. The feeling of rust against his paw-pads was extremely distinct. The ladder held. He closed his eyes on the way down; nothing to see anyway. Rust.

Summers spent at the sea-side. Once he helped a fisherman, a friend of his mother's, fix his vessel, handing him various keys and bolts and watching as the towering bear went to work beneath a clear, blue sky. The sun was warm against his skin, then. Birds sung all about him. Flaking metal left traces behind on the soft, brown-black cushions which covered his palms. It felt like stroking the fur of some beast long-dead, metallic and cold, but growing warmer after each caress. And the bear's ministrations, unseen, concealed beneath the edge of the vessel, the lip where the sea met the confined dryness within. No singing birds to greet him now, no fisherman's smile, or well-deserved lunch consisting of sardines and wine, despite his youth, despite how inexperienced he was with alcohol. Just the great, empty silence of some subterranean reservoir. The ladder ran out quickly. He felt himself sink into the soft, wet surface.

He took a sideways step. The mud gave a creak of disapproval, but held, and he looked about himself again. Darkness layered upon darkness, empty and vast, with the walls of the reservoir standing tall, reaching to some unseen place, invisible. More groundwater basins, he thought to himself, and paced forward slightly, to the middle of the space. A series of deep, penetrating metal bangs filled the air and he spun on his heel at once, one paw rocketing to the weapon on his back and another seizing the sidearm in his pocket, ready in case an attack was coming. Another bang. He sighed. Hornetta was just descending the ladder. He looked up, to roughly where she stood. Up in the inky mire, he saw a pair of legs and a half-torn skirt shuffle about, and nodded to himself.

The small light of the phone vanished, and she stumbled downwards; her descent was markedly awkward in gait, and she visibly struggled to maintain her balance with her right arm limp and useless against her side. He sought an exit in the meantime. The air was plainly damp. Nick felt his nose bounce about, seeking out scents. Nothing. Just wetness and silence. Had he a spare moment of sanity, his mind would drift to his wife, but now she became flashes of images, beating amidst the adrenaline rush, the sole thing still keeping him upright and on the beaten path.

On the other side of the space lay a door. He approached it, somewhat apprehensive at first, uncertain of who may be hiding behind it, but pressed on regardless. Nothing. No-one pushed it open. Water dripped from somewhere afar. He pressed the simple, brass handle down, and it swung open at once. With it cracked like that, he waited for Hornetta. Then it happened, for the first time. A sound. Deeply distant, but there with a haunting presence. Cutting through the air. His ear perked. More banging, followed by a wet slap produced by Hornetta's bare hooves landing in the mud. He watched her dust herself off with her good arm, and moved closer to her now. Nick knew that the gazelle couldn't see anything. For a moment, he was convinced that he began imagining things. The voices of the dead coming back to haunt him. No, he thought, it was there. That much was true beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"You alright?" He asked, and watched her nod; two blank eyes locked onto where he roughly stood, "Let's go. No time to waste."

With her bringing up the rear again, he nudged the door fully open. The passage they entered was a dark one. It stretched into the same darkness as the long reservoir pipes they had crossed mere minutes ago. The ground was perfectly dry, spotless, save for the rolling motes of dust which crept along it. Then it happened again. A voice. Someone was down here. He felt his feet quicken along the slick surface. No lights, still. Hornetta clung to him and he felt her grasp tense against his arm. They walked forward a little bit more and he heard her hooves shift and clack, hiding behind him, crouching down once again. Numbness consumed him. Not a single digit of his paws, nor an inkling of sensation in his muscles. Automatic. Keep walking. Another noise, vaguely more corporeal now, but still distant, still far, echoing deeply through the nothingness at their feet.

And then it became a voice.

"...please wake up." It called, and Nick's ears perked, "Daddy, please wake up. Please." Youthful and high-pitched, but robbed of texture and definition, hollow, empty, "You can't sleep here."

Hornetta stopped.

"Is..." She asked and felt a tug on her arm.

"Come."

Were these ghosts? Did the dead truly return, walking the Earth to remind the living of their sins? His heart beat at a thousand miles per hour. There was no time to doubt his own hearing; if only he had Judy beside himself. Quickening sobs. Pleading voices, begging for a release from some unseen torment. Instinct took over. The voice belonged markedly to an infant, and with the pained howls pulsing in his ears, he could not contain himself. His step quickened rapidly, and became a pacing run. The gazelle kept up at once. Deep, rapid breaths. The hallway continued, endless, unceasing.

"Nick, are you praying?" He heard Hornetta ask, but her voice turned to the same shape as the one they were pursing: formless. Female, close, caring, protective; Judy. His wife. His lips moved of their own accord.

"Gaea, oh mother of all things, the creator of the cycle..." He began muttering, with his mind screaming inside his skull, telling him to contain it, to silence himself in case danger lay ahead, but he simply couldn't, "...to deliver us from evil..." The voice had begun to fade; anything but this, "...from the moment of our inception, to our final step, into your golden gates." Whispers, too, "Amen."

Upon the mark of that last word, the horror came into sight.

"Daddy, please..." Nick stopped suddenly. Hornetta slammed into his back and steadied herself, sending the smaller fox reeling forward, catching himself with his paws flat on the ground. He rose up. In the corner, less than two feet away from them, on an intersection in the hall, lay a body. It belonged to a lion. He lay on his stomach, form pointed towards the visitors, both arms outstretched, paws still grasping at the ground as he desperately attempted to continue, but never found the strength to. Beneath him, blood pooled, emanating from far ahead. Nick took a step. Two eyes shone from the darkness, snapping onto him at once.

"Daddy, someone is here to save us!" The child cried, and a tittering laugh rolled into Nick's ears; shock. He took another step. The infant tugged against his father's arm strongly, and it rolled, limp in the creature's palm, useless now, "Daddy, wake up, they're here to rescue us!"

"By the Gods..." Hornetta muttered. Her own voice now took the same inflection as Nick's; even without seeing, she could understand what it was that they saw. Nick approached the cub, leaving the gazelle behind himself. One more step, and then another one. He knelt down sligtly, holding out one of his paws in front of himself, and keeping the other at the base of his back, to cradle the edge of his weapon and keep it from showing.

"It's okay, little guy." He whispered, and with a deep breath, pulled all the tears back into his throat, "We're here for you."

"Can you wake my daddy up?" The little boy asked, and Nick took a glance towards the motionless form; bloodied skid-marks led to where the dead father lay, "He's fallen asleep." With a wave of his concealed paw, the fox ushered Hornetta past him, moving to the left to allow her passage, and he could hear her walking just as slowly as he did. How was he to do this? My father's sleeping, he recalled. The yellow-furred boy that knelt in front of him was barely eight, if he could ascertain that correctly. His sweater was completely covered in blood, as were his sleeves and muzzle, but his neck was bare, showing nothing, not even the beginnings of a mane.

"It's all going to be okay." Nick went down on one knee, and gave a series of upwards glances, watching as Hornetta side-stepped her way along the dead lion, her eyes drilling holes in him; the boy hadn't noticed. Shock, "We're here to get you out, buddy. Your daddy sent us." The urge to cry, to weep, to bellow at the skies was overpowering, but he kept his composure as much as he could, but did nothing to stop the vile tears which slid down his cheeks; the boy had been doing the same, but stopped as soon as his rescuers arrived, "Your...your daddy can't come with us. He has to sleep now." How do you explain death to an infant? "He's going to come with us a little later."

"Why..?" The boy asked; all hopes had been dashed in his eyes, and he no longer smiled, his white teeth invisible against his blood-drenched lips, "Why does h-he have to stay here?"

"Because..." Nick crept closer, on both his knees now, and placed a paw on the boy's shoulder; it twitched beneath his touch, "Because he needs to sleep, okay? He just does." The boy nodded. Now he understood.

"Please, hurry...it hurts." The child said, and Nick looked the boy over. Nothing was superficially wrong with him, but he felt cold to the touch, colder than Nick expected him to be, and his cheeks appeared pale, despite the grey tint of the fox's night vision, "It hurts so much. Daddy said he'd make it go away."

"What hurts?" Nick pressed, and the boy motion downwards with one of his paws; now he saw. A gash on the child's torso, a tear in the sweater, a son's blood mixing with that of his father. Adrenaline kept the boy from passing out. But now he could see his eyes lulling to the sides, and their lids fall a bit, half-way. There was nothing they could do any-more.

"This must be the place where animals sleep..." The boy said, "I'm so tired, just like daddy was..."

"W-what's your name..?" Nick asked as he crept closer. Behind either of them, Hornetta stood, frozen, hands clasped over her mouth, and eyes red with tears, same as Nick's, same as the boy's; he moved closer still, and the boy simply fell into his arms. He embraced the child. Even colder now, and fading rapidly. From the first deep breaths the child took, pressing against his chest, smaller ones formed, sharper, more pained, laboured, struggling against the agony.

"Peter." Whispered from within Nick's grasp, and two small paws made their way to his back. Seeping warmth on the front, and tepid on the back, "My friends call me Pete..."

"My name is N..." He spoke up, but froze, swallowing hard; metallic and cold, biological; animals, "Nick..." He continued, "Pete, you're going to sleep now as well." Nick heard himself say. He had no control over his actions any-more. Some deeper part of him took hold, and he looked up to Hornetta, seeing her outline faintly against tear-stained eyes. He nodded and mouthed 'run'. Hooves stamped down the hall. Good, "Just close your eyes, okay? Everything is going to be alright." The boy's grasp slackened slightly but Nick could see him nodding, "Everything is going to be alright."

"It hurts so much, mister Nick..." The boy said, and repeated it twice, "So much..."

"I know, I know." One of the paws on the boy's back moved, and slipped around him, around his side, swinging to where he kept his weapon. It grasped the cold foregrip, "I need you to trust me, okay?"

"Okay..." The boy whispered, "I trust you, mister Nick."

"This is going to hurt just a little bit, just the smallest little bit..." And then, he turned the weapon fully. It pressed into the boy's side just slightly. He felt his fingers move to the trigger, angling the weapon towards Pete's heart. One bullet. Manufactured by a defense firm, stamped and packaged, sent to the security detail at the mall, for use against criminals; one bullet, to take the life of a child. Quivering breaths. Fingers clasped against his back. Violent sobs shaking his visage apart. Deep canals in his cheeks left by the tears. Everything fell apart.

"I'm so sorry."

The cub twitched for the last time. And then he slept.

Just like Nick had promised.

* * *

Judy never knew truly how vast Pancontinentia was, or how varied its biomes were. The helicopter ascended through a narrow concrete tube, lined with trusses, all four of which had a string of lights on them. Atop the spire sat a pair of blast-proof doors, seeming massive in weight as they flew up and past them; even with the noise of the helicopter, its whirring overpowering and necessitating the use of a headset for in-cockpit communication, Judy could plainly hear the screeching metal as the silo slid shut. Initially it appeared a blemish on the surrounding countryside. A vast, obsidian disc lodged firmly between endless rows of trees. The compound was subterranean for the most part, but it had a camp beside it, and she could see it on the lip of a nearby hill, seeming like nothing more than an ordinary military installation. Nothing to reveal its sinister nature. The forest seemed endless. She did not quite know where they were, but given that it took them an hour to get her from Zootopia to here, she imagined it was in close proximity of the city itself. Judy sat on the far left side of the helicopter, with Caplin sitting diagonally across from her.

They rode in a military transport, the likes of which she had seen before frequently, mostly in games, and once or twice in the news. From a distance, it looked like little more than a plaything. This one was slightly different from the ones she saw usually. Most games featured it flying with the side doors wide open, but Caplin laughed when she asked about that, suggesting that doing so is both irresponsible and stupid, and most of the time completely pointless. The doors were shielded by means of a thick spall liner, designed to stop small arms fire, and leaving it open meant that any number of hostiles, be they insurgents or a well-trained military force, had direct access to the unarmoured interior of the vehicle. Directly to the right of Judy sat a pair of soldiers. Unlike The Order, the CIPD's men wore helmets, but kept their faces visible, with a black balaclava ready to be raised at a moments' notice, should the need arise. Two more sat opposite Judy. None of them spoke as they boarded the aircraft, but Caplin gave a nod to one of them and he nodded back. All wolves, all similar-looking.

For a few moments, Judy watched the clouds drift by. Sunny weather, with the sun well on its way towards the horizon. Almost seven o'clock in the evening, but the ever-approaching Summer meant longer days, and shorter, warmer nights. She closed her eyes. Nick loved the Summer. She herself couldn't stand it before she met him, but he had taught her that the stifling heat of the day was nothing more than a simple overture into the wellspring of pleasantly tepid silence that the nights became. Last summer, they went to a seaside town, Zulu Grove, and spent a night on a hilltop, on a blanket Nick had brought with himself for picnic purposes, but found the day too unbearably warm for its intended purpose; it found new life beneath them, newly-weds embraced and watching the stars. He showed her some of the constellations. His finger would bounce and move between seemingly random spots of light, but each grew in purpose as he connected them, and drew pictures, making something out of nothing at all. Judy smiled. The helicopter gave a jolt and tore her from her thoughts. The ache in the side of her neck had subsided, but an unpleasant headache had made its presence known, beating against her temples. The emotional acrobatics of the day took their soul on her spirit. She pulled the headset down tighter; it was loose, evidently not having been designed for smaller animals like herself.

"Were are we going?" Judy asked, yelling into the mic, and watched Caplin wince slightly.

"There's no need to shout, I can hear you perfectly fine." She insisted in return, "We're heading to an advance triage camp set up by the Pancontinentian Guard just on the edge of the city, in the Rainforest District." The lioness reached into her pocket and produced a cigarette, offering one to Judy, who refused with a shake of her head; she just had one, and her throat still felt somewhat sore from it, "We'll set up a listening post there, in a spot which preferably overlooks the city itself." Judy nodded. The explanation made sense. As the central district was an island, and thus separate from all the others, establishing a foothold in the one closest to it was perfectly logical.

"Ma'am, you can't smoke in here." A voice drifted into Judy's ear over the headset and she glanced around, but found that none of the soldiers were wearing one; it was the co-pilot's voice. Rather than put the cigarette away, Caplin turned in her seat and looked at the canine, a border collie, and frowned.

"I outrank you."

"Yes, ma'am." The co-pilot responded with a mocking chuckle and Judy watched his helmet sway from side to side.

"Step one is gathering intel." Caplin continued and Judy watched as the lioness leaned forward, her tie hanging between her forearms, paws clasped together in thought, but eyes fixed on the bunny, "Which is what Carter needs us to do. I may have my opinions of him and his methods, and I do enjoy berating the cunt at every opportune moment, but there's no denying that we need to work together." The lioness shook some of the ash onto the serrated floor of the vehicle, and it vanished in the spokes, "Pancontinenta doesn't have a large military. I don't know if you know this."

"How come?" Judy asked.

"Fifty years ago, in the twilight of the Great War, the Earth united. Not in the way we may have wanted, but it did. Arabescia remains the sole hotbed of conflict, but even that has more or less died down in the last twenty years. Religious extremism there has more or less been wholly eliminated, and as a consequence, all the trigger-happy dictators and totalitarian scum lost their grasp. Hasn't been a war there in almost a decade now, I believe." Another drag; the soldier to the left of Caplin sneered momentarily, "Given that, and the fact that both Indo-Thasia and Russo-Slavia have more or less retracted into themselves following their victory over us, there simply was no more need for a large military contingent. We have strong diplomatic ties with all three continents, and pursuing any of our own national interests would result in another global war; and we'd lose just as badly as we did last time."

"But both of those have massive militaries." Judy added, echoing what she heard on CPNN some time ago, "I figured shoring up defence would be our priority."

"Obviously, but you'd be wrong." Caplin finished her cigarette and slid the door open for a moment, just barely, to dispose of the stub. Air roared through the cabin but was promptly extinguished a moment later, "Even the trigger-happy conservative delegates in Centralia know better than to threaten two sleeping beasts. Well, some of them do. Others not so much."

"I see."

"All Pancontinentia has is the Federal Guard. With the loosening of post-war sanctions came its expansion, but not by much." She added, and Judy leaned in slighty, using her knees as support while she listened, "It'll do for what we need, though. Not to mention that Carter is already in talks with the Indo-Thasians. They've begrudgingly offered their help."

Judy gave a nod and leaned back against the door, turning her eyes to the window again. They were over the sea now. With the flatness came a tranquillity; long, shimmering streaks of blue, twisting beneath the empty horizon, framed by a hanging border of white clouds. Nick taught her how to tell different types of waves apart just by looking. Always the sailor, she thought, and found herself smiling again. A better time. She closed her eyes, just like Caplin did moments earlier, and held onto those images. They lingered for a pleasant moment, but were soon supplanted by flickers of news footage, all adding up that moment; the terror, the screams, the uncertainty. Her smile disappeared. Today she nearly lost him forever. The bunny's eyes shot open after a moment and she felt her breath accelerate. The possibility returned. Those soldiers could've shot him just as the camera cut out. Impossible, she thought. Nick would've gotten away. He always gets away. For a moment, she felt thankful for his street-bound upbringing, and all the wisdoms it imparted, sparse between the trauma, but still useful in a pinch. No, Judy decided, back turning firm, paws lifting themselves out of her lap, and she looked ahead with determination. My husband is still alive; this she mouthed to herself, as clear as day, and as piercing as she could make it out to be against a backdrop of mechanical droning.

She played with her wedding band for the rest of the trip, closing her eyes and recapturing those images, recalling them from the mist of sheer worry, the inevitable concern one half has for the well-being of the other, but starkly painted with agency, with her own power in the matter. If she chose to do nothing and accept the idea that Nicholas Wilde may as well be dead by now, she wouldn't accomplish anything. She glanced to Caplin. This was what agency felt like, truly. Judy Hopps, the bunny in whom no-one believed, no-one but her husband and her parents, the one everyone pushed about and had their way with her, using her towards her own goal, or seeing her as nothing more than an obstruction, had done something. A service to her own country. She recalled the lioness' words when she woke from her chemical coma: you've done your country a great service. Perhaps, she thought, helicopter now aloft over the rooftops of the suburbs, but she was about to do an even greater service, one that mattered. Judy was no patriot. Separate the relevant from the irrelevant, and the tensing motions of her fingers as she gazed at them seemed to slot everything into perspective; these are the paws with which you've made yourself into what you are: a police officer, a wife, a mother-to-be, but most importantly, someone to begin with. Three words spun in her head as the helicopter touched down, rocking a bit as it settled on the makeshift pad: you are someone.

Where once stillness reigned, movement took hold, and the four soldiers pushed the side doors open, and Judy watched as they piled out, one by one, assuming their positions on either side of the two exits. Caplin was next. She motioned to Judy and the bunny followed. Side-by-side, they descended down the edge of the pad. A small set of makeshift steps, carved into the hill precisely by means of field shovels, marked their path. At the base of the hill stood a fox with his back turned to the new arrivals; Judy's heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she saw that outline, but one additional glance revealed his fur to be white rather than orange; an Arctic fox. Few of them lived in Zootopia. Most stuck to Tundra Town. The bunny knew why: mistrusted everywhere, foxes mostly stuck together, avoiding unnecessary contact with the outside world. Her paw lingered just inches away from her abdomen, fully prepared to shake the fox's paw when he turned, but once he did, he remained as he was, seemingly noticing neither Caplin nor Judy. The lioness approached first, her step having extended the closer they got, and gave a rap against the fox's shoulder; he jumped slightly.

"Oh, hello!" He said, and looked about blankly, "Who's there?"

"I'll give you three guesses." Caplin replied, "Glover, you old war dog, how're you doing?"

"I suppose I'm doing well." The initial dryness of his response was immediately counteracted by a jovial exchange of paw-shakes between himself and the significantly taller lioness, "And yourself, Jennifer?"

"Not good at all. We're up shit creek with no paddle." They began walking, and Judy stared up at Glover, who seemed to be utterly oblivious to her presence; his eyes where just as white as the remainder of his body, save for two small, red pupils, which never appeared to be pointed anywhere relevant; the way he walked was odd, too. His step was long, and he'd always take time to gauge where his foot would land, "I'm not surprised you got here first."

"Oh, trust me, I know when I'm needed." He added with a short laugh, "What would the PCID do without their star analyst?"

He and Caplin exchanged a few more lines, each adding upon the previous one, but Judy couldn't make out the meaning of any of it, as their exchange quickly became steeped in memories and jargon. A few hearty laughs later, and they had arrived at the main camp; the helipad was separated from the rest of the makeshift installation by means of a narrow dirt path, descending from the slope upon which it sat. Numerous drab green tents flapped about in the wind, sitting calmly at the foot of the hill, looking akin to building blocks discarded by some bored deity. None of it had a pattern to itself, and Judy surveyed the moving dots below with interest; some carried weapons, moving swiftly, tall and stocky, evidently soldiers of one form or another, while others took on all manner of shape and size, from the very smallest of creatures to vast, lumbering bears, and even an elephant, hurrying along at as much of a pace as they could manage, with an armful of equipment. The atmosphere was already tense, but none of it seemed to matter to either of Judy's companions.

Directly past the camp, the Rainforest District sprawled, resembling little more than overgrowth from here, save for the suspended highways which connected individual parts of it. Rotating lights screamed about on these thoroughfares; the entire city was on high alert. She was aware that Glover had either not noticed her yet or was consciously ignoring her, but for the moment she was far too preoccupied with the surrounding sights, and she instinctively glanced towards the central district, but found a row of trees to be in her way. The sky above the central district lay covered in menacing, black clouds, rising in plumes; unnatural constructs, products of the unseen terror she had beheld from a distance. Until now, at least.

They arrived at the main camp shortly, and Glover took to leading the way, with Caplin bringing up the rear. Judy nodded up to her, expecting her to say something, but she just smiled in return. Typical spook, the bunny thought. A brief parting opened between the bunched-up tents, and she saw it for the first time; Zootopia. Or rather, what was left of it. Glass towers still lined the horizon, backed by the profound flatness of the South Sea, but lay mostly covered by smoke. Through the partings in the soot-stained veil, Judy could see shimmers of light, shining, menacing stars, pin-pricks of golden blood; fires. The entire business district appeared to be burning, and so was the waterfront. On the middle sections of one of the spires, she could see thick, black smoke, its source elevated above the remainder of the pandemonium, thus making it clearly visible.

At this distance, Judy couldn't make out any details, but it appeared to have been caused by an impact of sorts, with the entire top of the massive vanishing in the screen. Nick was in there. She felt her stomach turn. In her room at home, or what used to be her home in the Burrows, she had a poster, taken from a similar distance to where she was standing now, a wide-angle shot of the entire vista. Sold to tourists by the dozen, it was an image seen by millions over the years, and much of the skyline depicted had changed. This was her quarry for the longest time; the goal, the unseen treasure to be exhumed, the very thing she had always yearned for, and now it burned at her feet. The bunny paced away quickly and quietly, having spent but a moment surveying the damage, and immediately took her place at Caplin's side.

"Welcome to my humble hovel." Grover chimed and pushed one of the tent-flaps open with his paw, "My hole in the ground, my temporary home, my domain. Call it what you want." He turned to the lioness for a moment, "Oh and Jenny, do behave. These are my operatives, not yours."

"Noted." She shot back, and they pressed inside, following the fox; still not even half a greeting directed at Judy. She felt her paws clench slightly. Typical. The inside of the tent looked unlike anything she had seen before. From the long, metal tables covered in computers and beeping, light-spotted boxes, to the myriad glowing screens, most of them dormant and bearing the PCID's seal; beneath each, a motto shone: audere est facere. To dare is to do. They gathered in front of a long row of televisions, backed most prominently by a projected screen, and Grover stood before either of his guests, paws behind his back, and eyes seemingly fixed on Judy.

"Now that we've settled down, I'd like to introduce you to someone." Caplin finally spoke up, and Judy gave a sigh of relief, "This is officer Judy Hopps of the ZPD."

"I knew there was an extra set of paw-steps following us." The analyst responded and extended his paw towards Judy, "Bunny, about two feet tall without ears, three feet tall with, female."

"Hello to you too." Judy responded, and tilted her head to the side in confusion, shaking Grover's paw somewhat reluctantly.

"I'm not sure whether you've noticed, and Jennifer naturally did not mention it..." The fox continued, turning to the side slightly to glare at Caplin, "But I'm blind." Judy almost smacked herself; of course. Everything made sense now. His gait, his mannerisms, the distant glances. Before she managed to apologize, he pressed on, "Phosphorus accident a few years back when I was still a field agent. No object now." He spoke with the same accent as Caplin, its highs and lows speaking volumes about his Continental origins, "Despite my handicap, I am one of the Department's most valuable analysts."

"In his own humble opinion." Caplin added.

"Yes, of course. My own opinion, and not the opinion of my superiors, or my evaluators." His tone turned suddenly defensive, but palely so, and for but a moment; at once, he ventured towards one of the screens and tapped a few keys on it, "By the by, when you said you're up shit creek with no paddle..." He tapped a few more keys, apparently by means of sheer instinct, and a call interface appeared on the projected screen, "So are we."

"What do you mean?" Both the bunny and the lioness took a seat on a pair of nearby chairs, the tent empty and quiet save for the three of them, "Did something happen?"

"Oh, something." Grover replied and laughed dryly, "If by 'something' you mean a jurisdictional pissing match, then sure." Grover stepped away from his keyboard and turned to face them again, eyes characteristically averted, "The DOD wants us in, but the Council has loads of objections to such ideas."

"You're fucking with me."

"I assure you, Jenny, that I am familiar with the notion of a time and place for things." The fox wagged his finger, "And this isn't either. It seems to me that Carter views this as nothing more than an opportunity for a promotion. Given that he's controlling the entirety of our military, and that he's playing into the paws of the Council means that we're effectively stone-walled as of right now, at least in terms of direct action."

"By the Gods, this country, I swear..." Caplin's forehead fell into the arch of her paw and her form shook with a deep sigh, but she rose from it sharply and faced forward once more, "Does he at least have the common decency to show up in person?"

"He's announced himself. Which means that we can expect him either by nightfall, or by the end of the month." Grover sat himself down as well, on a chair directly opposite his guests, and crossed his legs, reaching to a nearby table and fetching a mug, from which he sipped calmly, "Or anywhere in between."

"Welcome to the PCID." The lioness added sarcastically as she surveyed Judy, the rabbit having remained silent thus far, her eyes wide at the propositions the analyst had thus far presented, "We're nothing gets done because we wholly depend on Carter and his all-singing, all-dancing shit-show for support."

"He's not doing nothing, mind you." Just as Judy drew breath to respond to her newfound partner, Grover butted in again, his lips drawn into a somewhat bemused half-grin, "The Guard is already well on its way. It'll be about half an hour before the first choppers arrive. Once they load up on ammunition and soldiers, they'll head into the city and pick up survivors where possible."

"That's something, I suppose." The lioness gave a nod and rose, taking to pacing nervously on the other side of the room, paws clasped on her back, and feet pushing along the plain dirt floor, "How're we doing on the disk?"

"PCID Analytics is doing its best but it seems that the Guard has us beat in that regard, too." Just as Grover finished his sentence and took another draw from his mug, a machine powered on in the corner, two pairs of eyes and one pair of ears snapping to it instantly, and observing as it pushed out a piece of paper, "And that'll be the latest, I believe." With an air of perfect calmness, as if his kettle had just finished boiling, the Arctic fox moved towards the machine and tore the paper out of it, brushing his digits along the surface, "Getting a fax machine installed here took a while, but we've got the damned thing working. Here." He passed the paper to Caplin, "Out loud, if you'll please, Jennifer."

"Very well." She cleared her throat, "Ten thousand troops, roughly counted, heavily armed, with clear signs of military training and high-quality equipment. Airspace around the business district secured, deemed impervious to incursions. Three SAM sites visible from the drone, recon vehicle unharmed. No indigenous aerial capability detected." She lowered the paper, and glanced between Judy and Grover, "Goal ideological in nature. Leader highly charismatic, untrustworthy, psychiatric evaluation pending. Armoured capabilities unclear, will continue observations. End of transmission."

"The SAM sites are new." Grover explained, seating himself once more and fidgeting in place as he made himself comfortable, "Let the Guard set up its own exfiltration points. We've already got the early warning system broadcasting across all frequencies. And before Carter tries to claim credit for that, too, that was us. Our experts breached the local airspace protocol and aired a canned message."

"I'm not sure I've followed all of this correctly." Judy spoke up once more, and her paws hovered on either side of her head, trying to make sense of the mess she had been drip-fed over the last ten minutes, chopping up the smidgeons of information into more palatable, sensible stretches of thought; all that she could focus on was what this meant for Nick, "We're doing recon?"

"Yep, told you that'd be our job." Caplin folded the paper in half and set it down beside herself, onto the corner of a table, where its edges fluttered about in the barely palpable breeze, "Nothing more to do for now. I take it your contingent is already on its way?" With this, she turned to Grover, and Judy watched as the latter gave a sagely nod, "Good. You're the fox in charge from here."

"What do we do now?" Judy asked; the heat in the pit of her stomach grew louder, hungrier. She felt useless sitting on her paws. Do something to save Nick, anything. There had to have been something she could do. But even before Caplin responded verbally, her stern glance told the bunny all she needed to know. This was a waiting game now. A game of mutely hoping that he'd eventually get on a helicopter out, and find his way back to her. With that, she was dismissed, and left free to roam about. The sight of the city greeter her as she left the tent, and Caplin stretched beside her, clearly outlining her goal of finding the nearest mess hall. The shuffle of her vanishing paw-steps left Judy by herself, to watch the skyline burn. Animals rushed past her but she noticed none of them. Slowly, her feet began pulling her towards it, one step at a time, eyes wide and transfixed by the glances she stole. In time, she found her way to the edge, to the makeshift chain-link fence, barbed wire adorning the top of it, and with fresh earth piled around the supports.

Judy sat. She simply crossed her legs and sat, in silence, thinking of nothing. Her stomach occasionally growled, but there was no hunger to find her now. Helpless once more. This is bigger than you, she recalled, seeing that face in her mind again. The coarse, black outlines of Bogo's visage, coming back to haunt her, weeks after the fact, to deliver their blows anew. The experts were hard at work now. Nick once told her of the fishermen's wives which would wait upon the docks, looking out to sea, waiting for their other halves to return; the analogy was a sexist one, but accurate in the present moment. Her sea was her home, and it burned. Nothing changed since she arrived at the base. The myriad fires continued to consume. She narrowed her eyes for a moment, and attempted to find the source of the conflagration, the heart of darkness. Before the foot of the harbour lay the bay, the calm seas, previously home to countless ships, vessels to traverse the painted surface, but was barren now; waves sweeping softly.

Could she be able to hear them? Judy always thought they sounded a little like breaths. Matters were as simple now as they were ever: Nicholas Wilde had to fight his way through Hell. She folded her fingers together, but not in prayer. Instead, she sighed. He would live. A roar tore her from her thought. Long, drawn-out, oblong shadows passed over the tranquil waters, and shimmered in the piercing rays of the setting sun, and a gale parted the veil of cinders, just long enough to cast a haze against the silver bodywork of the helicopters, moving in groups of four, flanked by heavier, denser shapes, hanging like stones in the sky, armed escorts to prevent the worst. She raised a paw to obscure the sun.

Hope.

* * *

Hornetta said something to him. He had not heard exactly what it was, and it did not matter. He sat with his back to the wall. On either side of them, in either endless direction, lay darkness. Comfort, promises of justice, of having done the right thing. Blood marred his paws. He could not tear his eyes from these patches. None had form. Chaos. No sense to be made of any of it. The boy would not have lived. He would've expired in agony in Nick's paws, and each step he took would only make the pain worse. Colourless. No matter where he looked, the blood found his gaze, more of it, the boy having stood no chance. For the last ten minutes, he had wept. When he first approached Hornetta, he did not cry, and his expression was a blank slate.

But as soon as his back touched that wall, he collapsed, and so did his muscles, all of them disobeying in once as the choir screeched in his ears. The calmness of Pete's breaths haunted him. How ready was he? Did he finally understand what the sleep meant? Children had a way of knowing this. His tears ran dry. He had none left. Furious, impotent sobs rocked his form, drawing empty breaths, and none would reach, none would cast so deeply into the mire of what he had truly done to free him now. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could manage, and felt his paws, disembodied harbingers of some forgotten justice, scale his sides, clasp his shoulders, and rise further, to cover his ears. Everything howled.

Children had a way of knowing this. He watched his grandmother die. Barely twelve, and he could not quite comprehend what was happening. One day she was there, and the next, she simply wasn't. That was the best way he could describe it, even now: she simply wasn't. Her chest rose once, fell for the last time, and the monitor beeped. The road had reached its end. A sigh. The spirit leaving the body behind. He spent the next week locked deep inside his room, leaving only to attend school, and even there, nothing appeared real. Shadows playing before his eyes. Confront mortality, Nicholas Wilde. Accept it. Pete couldn't have lived. From the moment the first bomb exploded, he was doomed. He did not believe in destiny.

Nothing was set in stone, and agency could change everything. This was the very fundament of his being, but now it seared his heart; what was one to do in the face of death? His grandmother's name was Nora. Her face returned to him. It looked just like his mother's, and just like his own, he imagined. Gentle slopes above the eyes, and a slightly longer muzzle than usual, but a nose to match, to render it all proportional. By the time she departed, age marred her appearance, but he could see that in her youth, Nora had been a great beauty. What lives did she lead and live, which none saw now? Every second of our lives, spent doing something. All moments that would be wasted in the end.

Nick chose to end the boy's life. There was nothing else to be done, Hornetta assured him, over and over, her own voice breaking with tears, but she did not sob, she merely begged. It was his finger that pulled the trigger. It was by his agency that he unleashed that bullet. It was through his aim that it found its mark. Pete's memories lay cast aside in a disused biological vessel, left purposeless as the rest of him grew cold, abandoned in the midst of terror, of necessity. There were no Gods, no Paradise, no Gates to arrive in. Why did he pray? What did he think he'd accomplish with that. His paws began tugging at the fur on his head. Feel something. Feel anything. Move, Nick. For what purpose?

The world just lost a young boy, who could've become anything, anyone at all, just as deep and wonderful and terrible as everyone else. One more casualty, to be pounded in stone in some far-off memorial, and another name to be forgotten. If they ever found him. Time would erase that name. It will erase everyone's names. Monikers used in life to sum up in a breath all that we ever were. Spoken in passionate breaths, barks of fury, chiding whispers of love. All comes to the same, in the end: death. The final border. Why did it have to be the boy? In that moment, Nick would've given anything to return back to the start, to when he was watching that accursed trash can explode, just so a piece of debris could strike him and divert the waters of fate, perhaps to give the boy just a little bit more time, just to save something that mattered.

Judy. He mouthed her name, over and over, hoping to somehow conjure her up from the sheer emptiness within him. She was truly all that remained at the close of day. Please, he whispered, please, by the Gods, come and help me make sense of the evil I've committed. Nothing appeared before him. The mother of his children, his wife, his fixed point in an uncertain world. Consumed by forces he could not act upon. Death was one of them. His anchor was gone. Children. He did this to someone else's child. Pete's mother could still be alive. She could be wandering the surface, confused and lost, looking for her son amidst the rubble of a world gone mad. The chaos on the surface reached him now. Down here, they were physically safe. But above, innocents burned.

Innocents will die. His paws clenched into fists. Everything was connected. Everything was cause and consequence. Bogo did this. This was his fault. He killed Pete. Less than an animal. A creature. Drawn in silhouetted lines against a shaded background. Come to curse all which walks upon this Earth. If the Gods did indeed exist, they were cruel beyond all calculation. What sins did the living commit for such a punishment to be unleashed onto them? Dispel, Nick begged, rid me of these thoughts. He looked at the rifle before himself. The muzzle and grip were drenched in blood, and a bloodied paw-print stained the handle. One bullet, sent into a young body, without hope. Nothing you could do to save him. Nothing you could do to save anyone. Through the tears, he saw Hornetta's form. Now she slumped opposite him. Their legs were touching, and she had clasped her wounded hand, crying mutely. Save someone. Anyone.

This is how she felt. Helpless. Now he understood. His paws shifted away from his ears. The roar became less. Remove all agency. Accept fate. Some things you can never change. It is by chance that they stumbled upon the boy and his father; she saw her lips moving. Nothing came to him. He read into her expression. Blank, just like his own. How many more lives were taken? Two kittens playing behind a trash can. It exploded, devoured reality, casting all into a chasm, formless. Blood upon his paws. Nothing had shape any more. Judy. Save me, he begged, save me from this. Nothing. Silence. They would die down here if he did not move. They would join the boy, his father, the security guard, Lewis, the kittens, all those broken and cast aside on the road that led them here. Life was cruel. Some lived, others died. Pete died that day. What for? He looked down, between his crossed legs, and past the blood-stained edges of the garment, at the bare pavement.

His thoughts began to form a line. The primordial origin of sapience grew within him. Basal dots, interconnected, but without meaning, unless he assigned them meaning. The boy died. Lewis died. Hornetta lived. So did he. For now. Judy was somewhere out there. And here you are, Nicholas Wilde, crying over a life you could never save. There are lives you can still save: Hornetta's, Judy's, his own, and that of his future children. One dies so another may live. Life is a cycle. He rose to his feet. All things are cause and consequence. Pete died. You killed him. You had to. You killed Pete so your own children would never have to know that pain. Hornetta looked up at him. Nick took a deep breath, and then another one, and clasped his lips shut. His heart beat slowly, in a rhythm of threes, still powered by adrenaline, and powered by a brief gap between each third pulse. You are alive. She is alive. Live, Nicholas. Fight. And then the choir vanished. The screeching, glowing silence, manifesting itself as burning lances in his flesh, vanished, and the jaws released him. He drew a deep breath.

"We will never speak about this again." He commanded flatly, and Hornetta nodded, "Nothing happened down here."

"Y-yes..." She gave another nod, and then another, understanding seemingly, "Yes..."

He picked up his weapon and motioned for her to follow. She did. They walked down the hall. He told her everything; he told her how he held the boy in his paws, in a deep, final embrace, and how he sighed just before the bullet hit his heart, and that his name was Pete. All that he knew. She begged him not to, but he told her regardless. He took the memories into himself. This he would never forget. Pete. He did not know the boy's last name. Peter. Could've been anything. Hold onto that boy. The path began sloping upwards. He shielded his eyes as sunlight came into view. A storm drain, another one, grated at the top, to allow water to float inwards. They broke out into a massive subterranean aqueduct. It led into darkness on either side, but what little light streamed from above guided them. Head North. He removed his phone from his pocket and checked his own heading, one paw on the device, and another on the gun. He quieted down as soon as the fresh air hit his nostrils. They flared from instinct, capturing as much as they could. But he himself tasted none of it.

Nick felt nothing any-more. He felt purpose. The scramble to survival. Find Judy, and leave this accursed place. Those thoughts ran through his mind like the illuminated tickers which once glowed around Currency Plaza. Ceaseless, without pause, defiant in the face of the winds, the sands of time, the passage of the animals below; some lived, others died. Some passed under those signs one last time. None of them knew it, but they did. Perhaps some did. But none met their end with the same courage as the boy. Five minutes into their sombre walk, he stopped. His thoughts did, too. Above them, a vehicle came to a grinding halt, screeching on the pavement, followed by the dense sounds of paw-steps. The path narrowed above them. Hornetta had to duck to walk comfortably but he himself had no trouble standing erect. Now he stood like a statue, moving nothing but his paws, to turn the weapon upwards and aim it through the grate.

"Unit six-four reports sector clear." The same electronic din as before, utterly inseparable from all the other ones, followed by more clicking steps, and the sound of equipment harnesses rattling, "No sign of suspects. Repeat, suspects not spotted."

A momentary silence followed. Nick could see a foot come down on the grate. Hornetta stifled a gasp. He did not move.

"Roger that, description updated." The soldier turned in place and looked behind himself, at something unseen, "We're looking for a male fox and a female gazelle."

"Why are we chasing individual civilians around?" Another robotic din returned, and the soldier above shrugged, "Fuckin' waste of time. City's already ours."

Nick motioned for them to move, but as quietly as they could manage, and they began their slow crawl forward, into the safe arms of an underpass, evidently suspending the road upon itself. Light shone in the distance, a faint spot, but a clear sign of an exit. Four steps, he thought, and then stop. Nothing. The soldiers moved away. They boarded their vehicle all the same and departed, but audibly stopped a little ways away. Head due North, Nick reminded himself. Towards the light. What would meet him at the egress? Pointed barrels. Irrelevant. If they were to die now, the terrorists had them cornered, and they'd have nowhere to run. Bleeding out in a gutter is not how he imagined he would go, but all he could muster is a shrug. Get to the apartment. Save Judy. Once they were firmly within the pipe, his motions became a lot smoother, but all he could sense and make out was his own body moving automatically, with no plan to speak of, no coherent end destination. The apartment. That was all he could hope to reach.

The edge of the drain opened into a narrow pond, a sickly green in colour, and coated in a thin film of scum. Flowers blossomed between the dirt. He went first, and raised the weapon slightly. His foot sank into it. Not too deep. Once the pipe above him disappeared, he finally saw where he was; this was the gutter at the base of their street, the one which divided the Burrows from the neighbourhood adjacent. A short walk parted him from his apartment. Nick's lips drew into a momentary smile. Everything was going according to plan. Did he have a plan? He looked behind himself. The gazelle stepped into the water and moved over to him, and he watched as her skirt floated on the surface, trapping pockets of air and inflating slightly. He had no plan. Get to your apartment and figure out the rest from there. With that, he turned his back to the gutter and looked to the street, to check for any hostiles in sight. Nothing. They had long since moved up the road, and towards the peak, most likely to survey the damage.

The fox had little trouble hoisting himself up onto the side of the gutter, but Hornetta wasn't so lucky, and her hooves slipped repeatedly on the edge, plunging into a water with a splash. After a moment's reconsideration, Nick found his footing and anchored himself proper, his outstretched arm taking on the role of a lever to lift Hornetta up. She sat beside him, and took a few deep breaths, which he mirrored. Almost there. Over the edge of the road he could see the hardware store which sat at the base of their street; Elephant and Sons. This is where he and Judy bought the paint they used to paint the apartment just after they moved in. Nick himself visited it many times since, as a great many things needed fixing around the house, and he didn't always have the tools. He placed his forearms onto the edge of the road. With ease, the fox scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off. Only in the sunlight could he truly see what had become of his form.

Nick's shirt was torn just left of the buttons, where the shrapnel had hit, and the entire hem of it had separated, becoming little more than a blood-stained ribbon. The crimson trail crept up further, and it terminated at his shoulder, in a series of small, gentle paw-prints: Peter's. The boy clung to him until the last moment. Nothing. Just a sneer. Move on. Hornetta waved at him from behind. They implemented the same procedure as before, only now she created a step in the muddy slope with the tip of her hoof, which helped her along, and Nick barely felt her weight. They moved on. A short walk. It was a pleasant afternoon, for all intents and purposes. The Sun was setting behind them, in the far West, beyond the demolished skyline. He gave it a glance. Nothing new. More burning buildings. More slaughtered innocents. Survive. They kept a brisk pace. No distractions, and no time to survey the surroundings. Besides, Nick already knew each façade by heart, and even some of those which lived within, but only by sight, as he voluntarily distanced himself from the idea of being a good neighbour.

Endless rows of expensive houses, almost manors in their own right, had they not been connected in the middle. All abandoned. Some had their windows broken. Others simply bore no signs of habitation. One had the front riddled with bullets, and its door open. This is how Bogo's men secured civilians. Threaten to kill them should they opt to stay inside. No corpses to be found anywhere. Everyone went along with the plan. Who was foolish enough to struggle against a well-armed, well-organized terrorist militia? Those that stood their ground and fought inevitably died. All others either let themselves be captured or fled, just like they had. The distance they had covered in the sewers was an impressive one. He took a momentary glance behind himself. A good five or so miles to the business district. All on foot, all underground, and not once were they spotted.

An advantage on living on a sloped road was the ability to see up it without the danger of those you were watching spotting you. Soldiers milled about the crest in the road. In an instant, Nick pulled Hornetta down with himself; they were almost half a mile away, but still close enough to open fire should they notice any irregularities. The act of crouching made his wound sting, but he willed it away, clasping the weapon more tightly and glancing over the edge now, in bursts, taking his time with each. They lingered, seemingly talking between themselves, hovering around the van. A small group appeared, and the rear doors of the van shot open. Within them, a shadow appeared. Nick looked as closely as he could. His vision was excellent, but even he had trouble making out finer details at such a distance. A rhino emerged, clad in heavier armour than his comrades, and bearing a tube of some sort in his hands. It shot to life in the form of a plume of fire: flame throwers. The group moved towards the edge of the street. Burn them out. Nick felt his stomach turn. Run, he thought, whoever you are, for the love of the Gods, run. Flee.

Once the soldiers were out of sight, they moved on, but in a low crouch. Don't risk anything. Hornetta would look behind them, just to make sure. Then it came into view. Their apartment building. Untouched, and shimmering in the setting sun. It reflected off the panes just like always. Nothing to tell of the terror it faced now. The duo's advance was a quick and methodical one. Nick would check every corner before giving the all clear. The driveway looked the same as always. Sicamores swayed above it calmly, casting long, webbed shadows all along the macadam. Nick had no keys, but if push came to shove, he'd just shoot the lock open. It may give Judy a fright, but he could not risk wasting any time with her deciding whether to open the door or not. The ascent was as brief as it had ever been. Seventeen steps. He counted once. At the top, he froze. The door.

Or rather, the lack of one. It was blown off its hinges, and lay broken in a pile at the foot of the threshold. Splinters lined the floor around it. In the middle of it, the mark of an impact by a blunt object, resembling a battering ram in size, scope, and sheer, brute precision. His heart clenched. Was it possible that they got to her first? He took one careful step. Bogo would absolutely have cause to put a bullet in her. If anyone had wronged him and his schemes, or alternatively presented an active threat to them, it was Judy. The beating was just a warning. He stood on the doorstep. Home. From his vantage point he could see the city burn, refracting through the dusty living room windows, ticking itself to an unnatural, premature slumber, no longer calm. Another step. Now he was inside. Not a trace of damage anywhere.

A shriek pierced his ears. He turned and swung the weapon around.

"Don't come any closer!" A voice commanded; one that was extremely familiar to him. Without thinking, he dropped the weapon and ran to the source of the cry, "I'm warning y-" His mother lay curled up in a blanket in the corner, armed with the revolver from the cabinet, and with a bottle of water to the right of herself, "Nicky!"

"It's okay, mum. Everything is gonna be okay." He embraced her deeply and buried his muzzle in her shoulder, a motion she mirrored, and felt over her back, over her warm form; she was still alive. During the entire ordeal, Nick simply assumed that she had made it. Clementine had more than one friend in the old neighbourhood that could protect her, and he mutely assumed that she hadn't caught the bus in time. But now he saw she did. Terrifying possibilities rolled in his mind, but he acknowledged none of them, focusing instead on the coursing pressure her paws exerted on his back. Thank the Gods, she was still alive, "We're gonna get out of here."

"Nicky, are you okay?" She moved away slightly and he knelt before her, and her paw tugged on his tie, looking over his bloodied clothes, "Are you hurt?"

"Yes, but none of this blood is mine. It's a minor cut." The very briefest pang of pain returned to him, and his mother nodded, at once having noticed the way in which her son averted his gaze, "Where's Judy?"

"She...she wasn't here when I arrived, and I haven't seen her, but...I hoped you would've run into her and..." Clementine began to stammer and grasped her son's shoulder, and her composure came back at once, without the slightest inkling of distraught reasoning, "Is my daughter safe, Nick?" He glanced away, "Nick, is she safe?"

"I don't know." He said and sighed, and his gaze drifted to the ground, "I don't know."

He began searching. The air was silent. Nothing had been moved. He rose to his feet slowly and paced about the apartment. It was the exact same as he had left it. Not a single object out of place. The fox walked towards the sofa. Nothing on it at first glance. He walked around it and knelt in the carpet; traces of semen, having dried a long time ago, leaving behind nothing but empty, dull spots. But beside it, something else. Something vaguely crimson. A drop of blood. No indication of where she could've gone. A cold crept up Nick's back. He made for the bedroom. More of those same marks. This is where she walked just after they finished, and saw him off to work. The bedroom looked exactly as they had left it. Behind him, two voices exchanged greetings and names. Let them, he thought; a break in the horror. The first thing he saw from the bedroom door was her badge, in the display case where she left it, abandoned. His jaw dropped slightly. Judy had been taken. By whom, he did not know, but the prime suspect was obvious; Bogo was sadistic enough to do that. Take her and torture her, break her, and then kill her. Weaken her. He sat down on the edge of the bed. No, Nick, think. Who else? No other explanation.

He closed his eyes. For the first time in his life, he tried to feel her. It was a futile effort born of desperation, but he tried his hardest to focus on her warmth, her scent, her being, everything that made her what she was. The closet stared back at him; cold, wooden, and unmoving. Gone. But something was amiss. There was a component of his soul which shone brightly still, despite all the water which had been cast upon during the course of the hellish day, to stem the flames of his being; and that part belonged to her. Nick did not know whether it was foolishness or sheer refusal to believe that drove him, but in that moment he knew that she was still alive. Bogo hadn't taken her. It was someone else. No rational explanations, no evidence to be found, but he simply new. If indeed their souls had been bound together, and they lived as two in one, he did know, as clear and plain as day, that his wife was still alive somewhere.

So he began packing.

An old, weathered black case, covered in scratches, but it would suffice; and it had straps. Nick's priority was ease of carrying. The possibility persisted in his mind. He would pack up what was left behind of her and carry it with him, and if need be, die with it strapped to his back. First the badge; it was almost a ceremony of sorts. He closed the case and dropped it into the suitcase. It stared back at him. This was your job, Judy Hopps. Your passion, your life. Next he returned to the living room, and picked through the stack of DVDs; it was where she always left it: with its back up, on top of the player. Their wedding video. He returned it to its case and set it aside. Next were their boxes. It took Nick a moment to recover both from under the bed, but they fit snugly beside one another. The fox briefly opened hers; inside lay a notepad, the first one she ever bought for jotting down notes, filled with mementos from their first case. Beside it, his application form to the ZPD, filled out but never submitted. These were the winding roads of our life, he thought; not always as planned, but forever as one. And directly adjacent to it, a simple plastic carrot pen. He lifted it and pressed the record button on its back.

"I love you, Nick." Spoken more than a year and a half ago, and the last note she took on it. He put it back inside; these were the words he woke to, he fell asleep to, and he cherished more than any other in his life. And he would not hear them like this for the last time.

Judy Hopps, you were still alive.


	15. Forever So

The concept of home is a strange one. Over the millennia there have been myriad one-sentence summaries and platitudes spoken on the matter, but very rarely was the idea explored to any significant degree of depth; humanists and sociologists alike still had no answer to what exactly constituted a home. Rather, as a trope, it has always resembled a loosely connected group of images: safety, security, comfort, firmness, and looking towards the future; something that will always be there, unchanged by the turmoil of the world around it, and permanent, initially in a physical sense, and later, as change comes to relocate it to a different place, in a sense of memory.

In of itself, it was a contradiction: permanence with an understanding for change, but only for some. Nick himself had no illusions. He was not a sentimental creature, and to him, objects were of no significance. Life is a fluid thing, and circumstances reconstructed themselves based on outside input. Change becomes inevitable. Why cling to things which serve no purpose but to remind us that we could've been someone else entirely, had we taken a sideways step instead of one going forward? And yet, as he hoisted the suitcase onto his back, fastened the straps, and looked about the empty apartment, he felt a pang of pain deep within himself.

Scenes played in his head; moving in, watching Judy hoist the boxes up the steps, and the promises of a struggle, coloured by having to rearrange and organize things all over again, dashed by the presence of love and playfulness. No routine to speak of, no sense or sensibility, but a mere idea of taking things as they came. He'd make love to her on a blanket of discarded paper wrappings, and they'd lie up, awake beside one another, feeling the warmth of Summer evenings take them as their nostrils flared and their minds ventured to that new place, unexplored as of yet, mysterious and fresh, where the next few years of their life together would play out.

Each and every corner was a discovery, every new kink the house had, from the faulty electrical wiring to the hissing breeze of the air vent above the toilet. Eventually it became routine, but the composites of that youthfulness and freedom remained, working in cohesion now with the remainder of their lives. He felt his paw glide over the frame of the bedroom door. Things become less defined here, he thought, less clear. The bed they shared. Every creak was one he knew by heart, and the indent of their curled bodies in the centre would forever remind him of the age spent here. Now he was leaving, quite possibly for the last time.

Through the broad bedroom windows, the same ones he always looked out of, Nick could see the city burn. Never did he consider, not even for a moment, that the divide could become so scathing; there always was a division. A separation. That dusty pane which parts the uncertainy outside from the firmness of home within. It had been breached. This was the inner sanctum, he thought, the holy of holies, the one he would fight for to the death, but now death had found him proper, and he had to flee. All the promises he had made to himself, to protect that which came first, felt dashed; no, he thought, nod ruined, merely changed, like all things. Home took on a different form. As Nick wandered out of the bedroom and towards the living room, the air heavy with an alien scent he could not place, he sighed to himself and smiled.

Home was not the apartment, nor its walls, or its characteristics, but those that inhabited it. Upon his finger, a golden ring, a promise, but also a retreat, a safer place, the one that would persist until the very end. A fox and a bunny. No-one had ever believed in them, but none needed to; they had each other for that. One becomes two, becomes three and four, and eventually two again, or less, depending on how many children they raised. Pete was dead, his city was demolished, and a great evil had crept upon the land, but the fight was still in his paws. The fight to survive and maintain. Place your faith in forward momentum.

"Are you done?" Hornetta asked, turning away from Clementine, whose gaze also found Nick; he nodded, "We should probably get going."

That last line made Nick take a weighty breath once more: where would they go? Where was it that they could hide? And to what end? Nick himself would fight. Hornetta needed medical attention urgently. He moved towards the television. Undamaged and blank, the device sat idly, and bore nothing upon itself. He'd leave his CD collection behind, beside Judy's DVDs. Saving those was pointless. He could purchase all of them again. Nick was not a collector. None of the items within his prized shelf were rare. This is where sentimentality came into play for him. In items he had bought for himself, and at times for his wife.

"I wonder..." He muttered to himself and reached for the remote; Nick did not know what he was trying to accomplish or why. He simply felt as if that was the right thing to do. The screen flashed to life. A plain, black screen appeared where the news channel Judy left the television tuned to the night previous should've been. Words ran across it, struck in white, with the text appearing in digitized blocks. Three sharp, loud beeps followed. It read 'Emergency Alert: Urgent Message From Your Local Civil Authorities'. Three further beeps, just a sharp and penetrating, designed to get the attention of those watching.

Three pairs of eyes locked onto it instantly, and moved closer towards the sofa, with Nick sitting down and slipping the bag off his shoulders, and his mother behind him, paws on her son's shoulders, and Hornetta standing petrified in the corner. Had the circumstances been different, an outside observer may have found themselves wondering about the tension of whatever programme they were watching.

"The following message is transmitted at the request of the Federal Government of Pancontinentia." The voice was a robotic, canned one, evidently generated by means of a computer, drenched by a bare inflection, "An unidentified hostile force, known only by the moniker of 'The Order of the New Dawn', has orchestrated a number of attacks on civilian targets within the Central District of Zootopia. The combatants in question are heavily-armed and have no connection to state authorities. Citizens are advised to take shelter indoors immediately. Do not approach any windows. Do not communicate with any intruders. If outdoors, seek out police or other rescue personnel. If indoors, close all windows and doors, turn off all lights, heating, and air conditioning units. Secure rations wherever possible. Avoid being taken hostage. The attackers have been spotted executing unarmed civillians. Do not engage with hostiles, verbally or otherwise."

Cold sweat crept along Nick's back; a slow and heavy march of lead boots, pressing down onto every square inch of his being.

"The Pancontinentian Federal Guard has been deployed in the following states: Metropolia, Seeland, Maluria, and Northern Pomatia." The voice continued, and Nick's heart jumped slightly at the mention of Metropolia, the state capital of which was Zootopia itself, "Evacuation points are being established in all four. For Metropolia, these are the Duke Community Centre, Mariposa Community Centre, Cheryl Dawson Memorial Stadium, Dixon Central Hospital, Evergreen Lane Community Centre..."

Nick rocketed to his feet at once; Evergreen lane Community Centre lay at the top of the North Burrows District, at the very crest of the hill from where their building sat. The list continued, expanding into roughly twenty locations, but none of the three individuals present heard any of them. Nick rapidly pointed in a Northern direction, out of the front door, to which both Hornetta and Clementine responded with a curt nod and a smile; he felt himself smile too, and a laugh made its way up his throat, erupting from his lips in the form of a mad giggle; salvation, less than ten minutes away on foot.

"...evacuations are slated to begin shortly. If you are in the vicinity of one of these locations, go to them at once. Forces of the Pancontinentian Federal Guard are currently securing each, and are expected to maintain a firm grasp on them for at least an hour. Do not communicate with the terrorists; do not engage them verbally, or otherwise. Proceed to your nearest evacuation point now or stand by for further instructions." Three more beeps, and the screen flashed to black; it reset itself after a moment, and began broadcasting the message anew. Nick switched the television off. he wanted to sing, to dance, to break out in song. Anything to simply acknowledge the fact that, for once, things were going their way.

"We're taking only what we need." Clementine interjected, grabbing a nearby plastic bag, laden with canned foodstuffs and bottled water, "Nothing more, nothing less. Nicky, did you get everything?"

"One more thing." He patted the suitcase and hoisted it back onto his shoulders, and then darted to the other side of the room, to the kitchen counter; the adoption papers; there was no telling whether the department responsible for processing their request even existed any-more, but he took the stack of forms regardless, unzipping the bag and slipping them inside. He would not leave their future up to chance, "Let's go."

Wordlessly, they descended the steps out of their apartment. Nick had already said his farewells but indulged his mother, letting her stand upon the driveway for just a moment and give the whole structure a parting glance. In the meantime, he clicked the magazine out of his weapon and checked whether it was still full; one bullet missing. The fox swallowed hard and slapped it back in. Don't think about it. They pressed up the street. Counterproductive, he thought, and reckless to the extreme, had the circumstances been different. If the Pancontinentian Federal Guard hadn't secured the community centre, they'd all be dead by the time they reached the top. Bogo's men were up there. The Order. He spun those two words in his head for a moment as he proceeded down the pavement in a half-crouch. Even their name reeked of evil.

The van was gone from the crest of the hill, and so were the soldiers which surrounded it earlier. Nothing lay ahead of them but a bare and empty street, with a car lying on its side, having been thrown there by an impact of sorts. They were most likely clearing out thoroughfares in the city by ramming abandoned vehicles. Some may not have been abandoned. He shuddered. The slope became less sharp. They were getting closer. No gunshots, no shouting, nothing. Silence. Birds chirped and sang somewhere in the distance. Long afternoon shadows spilled from everything, fading into a tint of grey as clouds moved over the sunset; Nick could not ascertain whether they were natural or a product of the apocalyptic landscape. He tightened his grip on the weapon until it became vice-like, and his knuckles whitened. Initially, his mother clung to him with either of her paws, keeping them on his waist just like Hornetta did earlier, but now both of his companions had taken a step back, letting him go first.

And then the slope disappeared. The sky appeared before Nick, vast and grand, and already darkening in the far East, bowing before the advance of the encroaching night. Stars had already begun shining at the very edge of it, and he squinted slightly, ears perking every which way, to keep track of the sounds of nature; crickets had already begun their nightly song. This is where the edge of the city lay, on a cliff-top, overlooking the brackish river estuary. Beneath it sat nothing but waves and jagged rocks, and above them, expensive manors, suspended by artificial means. The road split into two, at a right angle to their street, and the left already began its descent, fading back down into another cramped district, while the right one continued along the cliff-side ridge, fading into the distance, all the way into the South-Western side of town. The community centre lay directly to the right of Nick, along the ridge. It was one of the few suspended structures which was not a personal dwelling, and contained evening schools, a day-care, and a small set of shops and assorted amenities.

It was plainly visible from where he stood; its parking lot lay empty, with its opening delayed by the attacks. No sign of the Federal Guard. However, there was no sign of The Order, either. The house on the corner of the intersection always stood out to Nick, but moreso now. Thankfully, the soldiers they had seen earlier hadn't used their flame thrower. It was mostly in tact, but visibly abandoned. No time. He motioned towards Hornetta and his mother. Both moved at once and took up their positions behind him, letting him proceed slowly. It was a truly beautiful afternoon. A calming breeze swept across everything, its soothing effect accentuated by the tranquil sounds of assorted wildlife, and the setting Sun gave everything a slow footnote of sorts. By now he should've already been in Judy's paws, watching something or other on the television, and letting the woes of daily life dissolve beneath the watchful eye of mutuality. On their way up, he and Hornetta had overheard gunfire in the distance. Now it was gone. Who else was there left to kill? Those that resisted had already been decimated, he imagined, while those that surrendered to The Order had their fates sealed. He couldn't help but wonder what Bogo was intending to do with the populace. Don't think about it.

By the time they had stepped onto the parking lot of the community centre, Nick relaxed himself slightly. Truly desolate and abandoned. Store-fronts gaped at him. The day care had been shuttered; a neon sign, extinguished and lifeless, shone out onto the pavement below: 'Safe Paws'. This is where he and Judy planned to send their children when they needed looking after, in the event that Clementine was unavailable. Not once did he consider the possibility that something as plain as a community centre could act as a beacon of hope and salvation. They walked forward, and he looked about himself, making sure that they were fully alone. Perhaps they arrived first? Just as he was about to remind himself to not think about the alternative, he saw something move in the corner of his eye. He raised his weapon and clicked the safety off.

"Don't shoot, please!" A voice asked, and he narrowed his eyes. Behind one of the dumpsters in the alley adjacent to the community centre, a shape stood up, tall and lumbering, and stretched itself a bit: a giraffe, evidently. Two raised hands hovered above it. Thank the Gods, he thought, at least someone else had made it, "We're waiting for the Guard!"

"So are we!" Nick called back and smiled, giving a pleasant wave of his paw, and then another one, and his lips turned into the widest beam of his life, simply at the sight of another survivor, "How many of you are there?"

"Roughly twenty or so!" The voice called back, and they moved towards it. Naturally everyone took shelter in the alley. Its tall walls and ample supply of cover made it more or less safe. With every step, more shapes appeared. The giraffe that greeted them emerged from cover; he was clad in a simple hoodie and trousers, and looked no different than anyone he had seen before, with his head hovering far above Nick's. Behind him, countless bodies of all species and sizes, vastly different in every conceivable way, save for the fear which shone on their faces. The giraffe bent down and offered a friendly hand to shake, "I'm so glad to see you, we thought we were the only ones." Two curious heads poked out from behind the giraffe, one belonging to an otter, and another to a dog; fear turned to tense relief, "Name's Freddie."

"Nick." He responded, and shook his new-found associate's hand with his paw, "Any word on the Guard?"

"We heard helicopters a little earlier, but couldn't see any of them." Freddie reached into his pocket and raised his phone, "I've been in contact with a friend of mine across town. Looks like we're near the bottom of the list, seeing as we're so close to the edge of the city. But..." A sigh slipped his lips, and he slipped back down along the wall, curling up next to one of the otters, who wrapped her paw around his wrist affectionately, "Dixon Central is gone."

"Gone?" Nick stammered out and watched Freddie give a nod, and his free hand raised itself to his face, long neck curling as the ridge of his muzzle sank between his index finger and thumb. Words were hardly needed, "I see." Hornetta and Clementine side-stepped around him, and he knelt behind the dumpster, giving a glance around its edge, "Are you armed?"

"Some of us are, but we're not good shots." Freddie gave a weak half-grin, "If The Order shows up, we're screwed."

Nick gave a nod and sat down with his back to the cold metal side of the dumpster. He looked over the weapon in his paws. As the blood on it dried and hardened, it turned black almost, and the sole indication of its presence were the unnatural ridges in the weapon's design. Nothing to do now and wait. If The Order spotted any government vehicles, they were sure to pursue them, which would lead them directly to the community centre, and in turn, to all those seeking shelter within it. Silence reigned. Someone cried in the far corner, unseen behind the remainder of the congregation. The otter which clung to Freddie's arm looked just like any other Nick had seen, save for her nose, which had a piercing in it, and the starkly purple line which ran through her otherwise pitch-black, shoulder-length hair. She placed a soft kiss on the giraffe's cheek. Nick cracked a smile.

"Oh, I didn't introduce you, did I?" Freddie chimed in after a moment, "This is my girlfriend, Alice."

"Pleasure to meet you." Nick shook her paw and she gave a timid beam in response, "Whereabouts are you two from?"

"We live in a student house not far from here." She explained, caressing her partner's forearm with her fingertips, and he gave a nod of affirmation, "We think we're the only ones. Haven't seen any of the others."

He nodded. More silence. Fifteen minutes passed like this. Nick took his time glancing over the rest of the crowd. Two polar bears, both male, clung to each other directly to his left, flanked on one side by a family of hamsters, who seemingly took cover behind the larger animals. He counted four otters, including Alice, and a cheetah directly across from himself, fiddling with his phone as he tried to get the connection working. Nick hadn't checked his own phone for a while. Hornetta still had it. She and his mother had found refuge at the very end of the alley, firmly out of sight of anyone that may encroach upon the parking lot. He felt his eyelids grow heavy. The day was long and arduous. Images of Judy rolled in his mind, undefined and hazy, flanked by snapshots of Pete and those he had seen in the course of the terror. Corpses, blood, devastation, death; none of it had any weight now. He had to get out of the city.

One dies so that another may live. Just as he felt himself crossing that boundary between sleep and wake, his mind rapidly becoming too much of a weight to bear, his ear perked up. Just one, slightly, and for no more than a second. Then it happened again. A sound, distant and faint, rattling, mechanical; a helicopter. He had never stood up so quickly in his life. Daylight faded fully and left everything drenched in a blue tint, turning a deeper, darker grey in the corners, and sinking onwards. He scanned the horizon through narrowed eyes. Nothing. Tranquil skies. Specks of light appeared. Plumes of smoke rose from the downtown area, spreading and twisting, torn apart by high atmospheric winds in some imagined place, usually speckled with condensate, but abandoned now. Nothing to the South. He glanced East, towards the deep blackness of the night. Freddie stirred behind him, and his neck unspooled from its twisted state, to hoist his head far above himself; he had heard it too.

"They're coming." Alice said.

The rattle turned louder in a flash. From a distant din to something impossibly loud and incredibly close. It arrived from behind the community centre. Nick paced forward slightly, but maintained his posture, in case an errant shot were to find him. There was no telling of whether or not they were alone. There it was. His entire world became noise. Four long, sleek helicopters, grey in colour, crested the edge of the roof and he gasped, seeing them fly onwards for a moment, convinced that they were going to miss them. They halted and hovered. Two large, twin-rotored transporters, flanked by an additional two which looked completely alien, bristling with jagged implements, with a single rotor. Dots of greenish light glowed at the very tips of the shapes. Cockpit lights. Everything else was dark. The group began moving, and he heard shuffling behind himself, words of encouragement and celebration, and even a cheer or two. The helicopters began their descent and turned, one clockwise, and the other counter-clockwise, the pilots posturing their vehicles so that the aft section pointed out, and the front towards their escape, ready to move at a moment's notice. Their escorts fanned out, and hung low above the surrounding rooftops, and through the darkness Nick could plainly see their turrets swivel, seeking out prey, ready to fire whenever it became necessary.

An electric buzzing filled the air and dimmed, passing just beneath the noise threshold of the blades, and the refugees looked up at once, all of them, only to see the rear doors open outwards. A ramp folded out of either vehicle, and Freddie ran forward, waving his hands in front of himself and clamouring for the others to follow him. The group moved as one, heads held low, paws scampering over the pavement irregularly as the gust threatened to blow everyone over. Nick stayed at the rear and ushered everyone else forward; the smaller animals clung to the bigger ones and hid within the folds of their clothing. A pair of deep, penetrating bangs broke through the background noise. They had touched down. Soldiers began spilling from either of the helicopters instantly, carrying heavy weaponry and clad head-to-toe in grey-green armour, most of them wolves, with the odd rhino or cheetah taking up positions between them. Nick saw the patches on their shoulders; sure enough, it was the Federal Guard.

"Go, go, go!" One of the soldiers called and gave a series of gestures with his paw. Nick did not hear the rest of what he commanded. All he could see was that entrance, that marvellous metal door, open to him and everyone else, ready to lift them out of Hell itself. He had never been this happy to see a helicopter before in his life. The group parted into two and were quickly ushered into the choppers. He was at the tail end of the second pack, helping those who were too slow along, and bellowing commands, pointing to the helicopter frantically.

And then it began.

Initially, no-one noticed it. One of the escort helicopters made a sharp upwards motion and pulled away. Soldiers swarmed around Nick, kneeling on the concrete and sighting their weapons, creating a protective wall of sorts between the civilians and the far side of the street. Pandemonium. His eyes fixed on a wolf, no older than he was, mouth agape, and screaming silently. No time to think about anything. Then came a gunshot. Nick dropped to his chest immediately, and watched as a series of glowing green lines cut the air above him to shreds. He took a leftward glance. The wolf he had just seen lay on his back now, his paws squirming upwards in a desperate bid to undo his helmet, and Nick saw the soldier's digits grasp at his own neck. Crimson seeped through them; more shouting. Undefined, unfocused. Chaos. He crawled forward on his stomach. Survive. The lip of the helicopter's gate hovered so closely to the ground he could almost feel the cold metal against his paw-pads.

The Guard dispersed rapidly and sought cover, with most of them concealed behind the low brick wall which parted the lot from the street. He watched as they set their weapons up frantically, reloading the empty ones and unfolding the bipods on their light machine guns. He had lost his own weapon in the pandemonium, having simply dropped it as soon as the choppers came into sight. One of the belt-fed heavy weapons clicked to life and lit up the entire street. In the darkness he could see return fire, the points of origin for the green rounds which now shredded the community centre, and he began to crawl forward, as slowly as he could manage. Nick could hear nothing, save for the howling engines of the helicopters, and the myriad minuscule explosions, caused by bullet impacts, sending motes of dust and concrete flying. A pair of polar bears overtook him. One of them stumbled and grasped his shoulder, and his mouth opened wide in a silenced bellow of pain. His companion hoisted him along, lifting his struck accomplice onto his feet and holding onto him with his arm, dragging him to the back of the helicopter. They were pushed into the vehicle. He could no longer see either Hornetta or his mother; they made it.

Nick's vision became fogged. He got closer and closer now. The lip began rising. He could see the soldier at the back of the door wave towards the cockpit; two fingers, raised vertically and spinning. No time. Gunfire. Screaming. Nick threw himself onto his feet and dashed forward as quickly as his legs could carry him. A paw clasped his shoulder and yanked him inside quickly, and he felt a tug on his ruined tie, and another, countless paws pressuring him forward, hoisting him deep into the safe embrace of the Guard chopper. He rolled onto his back. An undefined shape hovered above him, and he felt the touches retire, leaving behind a solitary pair of paws, to feel over his wound, his shape, the broken form of the survivor. Brief eddies of pain, but none palpable, none real. Everything became a haze. His ears were ringing, and he tried to respond to the medic, but found his voice lacking, unable to produce sound. The touch moved away. He was alone again. Not knowing what else to do, Nick stood and reached upwards, grasping for something to hold onto in the cabin. A ribbon wrapped itself around his palm. He was upright once again. Silence.

The ground began moving, and so did the buildings. Countless huddled masses, stacked without much rhyme or reason, with guns in their paws, shooting at something unseen. Lines of black spun on a dark blue background. No form, no shape. Just the ever-shrinking painted square of the parking lot. He watched the second helicopter rise up. They cleared the community centre with ease. A puff of white smoke shot past the open gate and into the distance. Three more sped past the second chopper, flying lower than their own, but remaining in formation; The Order was attempting to shoot them down. He had seen these missiles before. The low, wave-dashed coast came into view, concealed at the foot of the cliff and jutting forward, almost unnatural in its angles. A second formation of helicopters assumed pursuit, identical to the one he was in, and he watched them crest the hill. More white puffs. Only now, one of them found its mark; just like it did with the news chopper.

Fire grew from the edge of the black, rectangular shape. He watched it keel upwards, its nose pointing towards the sky, and then it began falling, out of control. All Nick could do was mouth the word 'no'. The last thing he saw before the rear door of their own helicopter closed fully was the struck vehicle crashing against the edge of the community centre. It spun grotesquely onto its side, resembling the corpse of some great beast, and fell down, rolling along the edge of the cliff, and shattering into a myriad tiny pieces, breaking apart into halves, and then, with a terrifying sort of finality, erupt into a fireball. The metal floor beneath him fell away. His consciousness slipped from his grasp. The exhaustion he had been struggling to stave away since he first found the evacuation point found him, and this time, there was nowhere he could run. The world spun about. Darkness. Paws pulling him. A tight embrace. The buzzing floor, fading into silence.

They made it.

* * *

Judy spent a long time watching the city. More helicopters left, but none returned yet. She soon grew bored of where she sat and busied herself with exploring a little bit; that was a particularly notable character trait of hers, and one which Nick consistently adored: her natural restlessness. Judy could not sit in one place for too long, or she grew impatient. The same sights and sounds did nothing to stir her mind, and so an active desire to simply be somewhere else grew within her. During more tranquil times, this just meant travelling an awful lot, and given Nick's propensity towards wandering, they fit together perfectly. In the last two years they established a tradition of sorts, where they used all their spare vacation days on the same week as one another, and saw everything the local area had to offer. Seeland's Golden Coast intrigued her in particular, where they spent hours wandering about the docks, gazing out into the sea, and simply savouring each other's presence beneath the warm Summer Sun. Now she yearned for a distraction. For once, her mind was too loud. Between her rampant concern for Nick's well-being and his return, she merely desired silence, and something to grasp at her vision. Beneath the PCID's encampment lay a far bigger one, one she watched only from a distance, through the gaps in the chain-link fence. It was the Federal Guard's secondary encampment, some distance away from the first, but still sizeable.

The path towards it was a steep descent along a dirt path, beaten in previously by what she assumed were hikers; the districts of the city had been terraformed extensively to adapt to their given climates, and the Rainforest District in particular necessitated the use of some rather strong machinery to accomplish this. The natural landscape was excavated over a period of about ten years, and surrounded by tall walls, which housed within themselves the means to all forms of transportation, save for airborne. The walls themselves connected to the peaks of the former hills, and ran in conjunction with their throughs, and hikers routinely wandered along the mixed paths. Each bend in the wall had a vast concrete plateau fixed upon itself, and the pillars were so thick that erecting a camp atop it became a natural matter, especially in a situation like this. Roughly two decades ago, when both Judy and Nick were cubs, a hurricane had made landfall in Metropolia, and the damage to the city was extensive; emergency triage camps were established on the hard-points of the walls, and she had seen photographs of them in her high school history textbook.

Now things were slightly different. Where once helicopters delivered food and supplies now lay a parade of military equipment. Heavy artillery sat parked beside a group of dormant tanks, and Judy stopped at the crest of the path, paws finding her pockets, to watch as the engineer crews scrambled about in the dying light. They wandered around the heavy vehicles, performing myriad tasks she had never seen done before, from up close or afar, with precision and dispatch. Caplin spoke poorly of these men; she claimed that, with the lack of any significant conflicts which needed resolving, they grew lazy. Judy could not see it. Their work seemed methodical and precise. She sighed. Deep inside, she yearned to be back at the station. Working, solving cases, and living her old life, before everything got turned on its head. Now Pancontinentia was at war and her home became a fire of uncertainty. The bunny shook her head and took to the road once again, to wind down the path and inspect the camp more closely. Despite both working for the same government and the same country, the Federal camp had a guardhouse at the entrance, and a ramp for any vehicles which may arrive. Every wall pylon had a road connecting to itself; not a wide or a stable one, but none the less a road, intended to be used only for basic maintenance purposes.

It was a pleasant afternoon, and she stopped on the road down, to watch the sunset for a moment. It was as beautiful as ever, and even though she saw it from her own apartment every day, its beauty was not at all diminished. The way the shades of it twisted and fell into a burning orange, and then a deeper, darker red made her heart skip and race. To be a bird, she thought, and to fly high above the Earth. How beautiful the estuary must be from such a vantage point. The city itself lay surrounded by two prongs of a single river, Pomatiana, which is where the state adjacent got its name from. The waters of it were a stark blue, mingling clearly with the far darker tint of the sea as the salt encroached upon it. Clouds sat far on the horizon, messengers of stroms on the distant seas. And then, nothing. Thirty thousand miles of perfect flatness, of nothing at all, save for the odd island here and there. Then came Russo-Slavia, the great communist federation which she had never visited. Judy had been discussing this matter with Nick for some time now. Despite both Russo-Slavia and Indo-Thasia being such polar opposites to their capitalist neighbour, they allowed free travel within their borders, evidently no longer feeling threatened by Pancontinentia or its citizens. Judy sighed. To be a bird.

The soldier at the gate of the Federal camp let her through with a nod. Movement was uninhibited between the two encampments, so she was free to wander about, despite the metaphorical border between them. Within the camp itself, she found nothing of interest. Much the same tents as in the PCID's fortification, but bereft of analytical equipment and instead ready and prepared to accept a flood of refugees. Perhaps she had misjudged from her original vantage point. On the far side of camp, she could see a medical tent, drab green in colour and marked clearly by a red triangle on a white background; the universal symbol of medical assistance. She hummed to herself as she walked towards it, and spent a moment meditating on the origins of the triangle. In Geian mythology, it was a sign of Mother Earth's burden and gifts, and as such became an accepted symbol of assistance in a time of need, at least within the predominantly Geian West. The symbol changed depending on where in the world one was; Arabescia had a red circle, a shield, to signify the protection nature gave, and Indo-Thasia employed a many-sided wheel, representing their faith and belief in the flow of life and its energies; all drew from the same Fables, but developed differently, in conjunction with their histories and culture.

The hospital tent was empty. Field beds lined its insides, stretching from one end to the other, and a few lay occupied by the medical staff, some talking between one another, others hunkered down in worry. One or two nurses slept. They needed the rest. Soon, the first choppers would arrive, and then they'd be working around the clock with no breaks, trying desperately to bandage and save the wounded. She moved away. The tank depot caught her attention. The camp was vast for its location. Nearly three football fields wide, at the very least, she ascertained, and squinted slightly, trying to gaze at the far side of the fence from where she stood, aiming her glances through a partition in the tents. She approached one of the tanks, parked by the far side of the fence and beside a helipad, where they delivered the equipment, and stroked her paw along the beast's side. It was cold to the touch. She ran it along its entire length and peeked at the back of it. Tail-lights for when it needed to travel the roads, and a wide radiator, divided into two. The engine must've truly been something. She continued walking. One of the technicians working on the vehicle spotted her and nodded, but said nothing, obviously in no mood to stop a civilian from wandering around the hardware.

Judy was most curious about the tank's weaponry. What would they use to fight The Order? Its tracks were wide, and heavy, and its paint-job was better suited for desert operations, but she imagined that the Guard would take whatever they could use. Left-overs from the periods of interventionism in Arabescia, before the region turned peaceful, as Caplin said. Many regarded the wars as illegal these days, spurned on by a bored and war-hungry political right whose business interests lay primarily in defence matters. Most had been ousted from the Council by now or had died off. The world was no longer theirs to exploit. She herself had few political opinions, but Judy opposed war in all its forms; it was a basal thing, primitive and brutal, and horrifyingly damaging. They were taught this in schools, too. All their lives, they were given information on the Great War, on the one which they began and lost, where it was Pancontinentia versus the world. Expansionism, greed, the desire for conquest, and it all culminated with nearly five hundred million dead on either side. She sneered. This was Bogo's idea of a perfect world. Constant turmoil, constant destruction. Kill or be killed.

The vehicle's barrel protruded some distance from its turret and was covered by a blue tarpaulin sheet, affixed by means of hooks and ribbons, to ensure that the moisture in the air, caused by the Jungle's proximity, did not negatively impact any of the finer mechanisms within. She stood in front of the vehicle for some time, watching as the light died around her and night crept up, and gazed into its barrel. If she were tasked with freely estimating its calibre, she'd say it was at least one hundred and twenty-five millimetres. Capable of delivering death an astounding distance away. She shook her head and walked away. Military technology may interest her husband, but she was only curious about law enforcement matters and less-than-lethal solutions. Nick himself did not like it that much. A smile played on her lips; he was a typical male. Cars, tanks, trucks, anything that's big and noisy could captivate his attention for a decent amount of time, and if it went boom in the process, all the better. Briefly she wondered what it was that seemed to turn all grown males into puddles of childish noises and expressions every time they were within ten feet of something that moved on wheels. You're a sexist, Judy, she muttered to herself and laughed a bit. Perhaps the circumstances were truly driving her crazy. There she was, in the midst of a war, chuckling to herself over trivialities.

"Over here, Hopps." A voice called to her and she turned; Caplin. The lioness smiled and gave a wave, followed by a pat on her stomach, "That meal did hit the spot, even though it tasted only slightly of hair."

"Glad you found something to entertain yourself with." Judy replied, and smiled at her temporary partner, her feet immediately moving in conjunction with Caplin's, "I'm just waiting."

"Waiting for something to do, I take it." Caplin filled in and Judy nodded, "I assumed as much. Trust me, I don't like sitting on my paws either, but this is a complicated situation. We'll have to see our paw before we play a card."

"Not just that." She muttered quietly and looked at the tips of her feet as they pushed the dirt aside with each step. A brief pause ensued, during which she tried her best not to sigh, and not think about what she was truly waiting on, "Caplin, are you married?"

"Okay, first of all, call me Jenny, or Jennifer, or any variation thereof. My last name is something I hear so often in a professional setting that I don't need to hear it in a personal one too." She insisted and Judy gave a brief smile and a nod in response, "And no. I'm not. Why?" Judy said nothing, but she didn't need to, "You're worried about your husband, I take it."

"More than you can imagine." Judy combed her ears back to rid herself of the sweat which had formed due to the humid air, "It's a toss-up between being worried and not being worried, you know?" Caplin nodded, "I mean, I know Nick's capable of getting to an evac point, and I know he'll save his own pelt every time, but I still feel as if nothing is certain yet."

"Trust me, I know the feeling." The lioness drummed her fingers along her sides as the pair shuffled past a desolate and empty tent, "I've dated a few of my fellow field agents in my day, and every time they went on assignment without me, I was worried sick." She turned to the bunny and smiled, the second genuine beam she had seen Caplin produce, and raised an eyebrow, "Best way to deal with it is to understand that there's nothing you can do now. Trust in him, just like he does in you every time you're out there, fighting crime."

"You're right." Judy nodded, "Thanks. I...I feel as if I needed someone to tell me that."

"I've been told that I make a stellar agony aunt." The lioness quipped in return and folded her paws behind her back. They walked the rest of the way to the fence in silence, and neither said anything. Standing one beside the other, they watched the skyline of Zootopia as night set in, with its fires glowing deep in the dark; no lights switched on anywhere save for those in the street, which shot to life rapidly, illuminating countless coursing veins along the face of the monolith. Steps echoed behind them. Caplin sniffed, "Is it just me, or can you smell shit?"

"Agent Jennifer Caplin." A voice boomed from behind, and she rolled her eyes, arms crossing; Judy knew that voice from earlier. Cold crept up her spine. Its deep inflection was oddly reminiscent to that of a certain buffalo, "Did not expect to see you in my camp."

"General Commander Oscar Carter." Both the bunny and the lioness turned slowly, and Judy adopted a similar posture to that of Caplin, but did not say anything as of right now, "Come to belittle me in my hour of need, I assume."

"No, actually." The bull kept his arms slack by his sides and glanced between either of them, and quite obviously so, given how far down he had to look to see Judy, "I'm here to let you know that we'll be co-operating fully with you."

"Bullshit." Caplin sneered, "That just means you'll find a more subtle way to fuck up our operations."

"So mistrusting." The bull tutted through a grin, and Judy could see Caplin's forearms clench slightly, "I don't like having to operate in the same theatre as you either, but you'll just have to accept it as fact. Either we do this together, or we don't do it at all."

"Okay, but I've got a few requests. And I'm sure Grover and his crew do as well." She raised a paw and began listing things on her fingers, "Firstly, I want a landing zone cleared for Alpha One once they get here. Second of all, I want a firm comms link to your HQ at all times, for purposes of anything, from an emergency airlift out to back-up. Thirdly..."

"I'm gonna stop you right there." The bull shot back, effectively cutting her off mid-sentence, and his grin fell back into an expressionless line, "You don't get to put your precious Alpha One on a pedestal, Jenny. They go in with my boys, and they leave with them. Do whatever spook shit you need on the way there, but you're not getting priority anything." He pointed a finger at Caplin's chest, "And not because I don't like you, but because we need all paws on deck for this, and I cannot afford wasting mission-critical resources on helping a single squad reach its goal." She opened her mouth to retort, but he motioned behind himself, "Why don't we step into my office and discuss this?"

"Certainly." She looked to Judy, "This ought to be a learning anecdote for you, Hopps." They began walking towards an unseen goal together, with Carter leading the pack, his broad body obscuring the view ahead.

"What's she got to do with this?" Carter chimed in, "Last thing we need now is civilians disrupting our operations." Caplin drew breath as if to retort, but Judy beat her to it.

"You're right, we don't need civilians disrupting our operations." Carter looked over his own shoulder with a raised eyebrow, staring daggers into the bunny as best he could, "Good that I'm not a civilian, then." Her paw reached for her pocket instinctively and fumbled about as she sought her badge, but did not end up finding one, "Officer Judy Hopps of the Zootopia Police Department."

"I don't see any official ID on you." The bull insisted, "And being a simple police officer is a far cry from being a mission-critical asset."

"Take my word for it, Carter. She's with me." It was Caplin's turn to speak once again, and Carter responded with a puff and a shrug; he himself could not be bothered any less by the current proceedings, and despite how obviously annoyed he was, he did try his hardest to not let that show, "Oh, and guess who supplied you and your intel department with that precious disk? It wasn't us." Carter froze as he pushed the flap to his tent aside, noticeably larger than all the other single-occupancy tents, and adorned with a six-starred emblem, signifying the rank of its sole denizen, "It was her."

"Sure, as if." He gave a deep, mocking laugh as he stepped inside; the tent was simple from the inside as well, but had a wooden desk rather than a metal one, and a blackboard on wheels behind it; assorted files lay on the wooden surface, along with a computer screen and a keyboard, and two chairs faced the desk, obviously less comfortable than the one intended for Carter, "A bunny fetched that disk from the office of a mass-murdering psychopath. What's next? Unicorns shitting tomorrow's lottery numbers?" Judy's face darkened abruptly, and she followed Caplin's lead, sitting down in one of the two chairs. Both females glared at the bull in front of themselves, "She looks like an analyst at best, perhaps a secretary. Not a field agent, and most certainly not capable of doing what you said she did."

"For fuck's sake, why do you two hate each other so much?" Judy clamoured rather suddenly, and shot glances between the two of them, arms crossed defiantly on her chest, "We've got one common objective, both the PCID and the Guard, and that's shutting The Order down. And you're too busy feuding over fucking nothing." Neither Caplin nor Carter said anything; they simply exchanged glances and gave a pair of meek nods, "Stop acting like cubs, fight if you've got to fight, fuck if you've got to fuck, and let the rest of us get on with the matters at paw here." Silence; at this point, she was standing in the chair, one paw clenched by her side, and the other pointing between the two, "In one day, I've lost my husband, my job, my life, and for all intents and purposes, my fucking future." She retracted her index finger and held it aloft above her thumb, showing a small gap between the two, "I am this close to losing my mind as well, and if you force me to listen to one more inane argument about jurisdictions or promotions or what have you, you're going to send this bunny off the edge, and then there's gonna be blood."

"In my ten years in the military, I have never, ever been spoken to like this..." Carter gritted his teeth slightly, "By a police officer. A bunny police officer."

"Oh, you haven't, have you? Perhaps you should've been." She turned to him now, "Oh, and in fact, I'm not just any bunny police officer. In fact, in-fucking-fact, Oscar Carter, the very first bunny police officer ever sworn into the ZPD." She hopped off the chair and moved closer to his desk now, and despite how much he wanted to appear large and imposing, he shrank into himself, with his chair slowly moving away from the desk, the distance by which he pushed it roughly corresponding to the distance Judy covered. It did not matter, however, as she found her way to the top of his by hoisting herself up. Now she stood before him, leaning into him with an expression of pure fury, and even the bags under her eyes, clear indications of how long she had gone without rest, tensed up in defiance, "The sole reason why you haven't heard this before is because of dickless assholes like yourself, that will do anything, and I truly mean anything to disallow the integration of smaller predators and prey into various official positions."

She turned on her heel and faced either of them, and pointed to Caplin.

"And you. All you ever do is complain about everything, just like the rest of the PCID. Nothing Carter does is good enough. Despite the fact that he's an ass..." She gave the bull a glance again and nodded sarcastically, "Which I will admit regardless of the possible consequences." The lioness squirmed in her seat and shrank beneath Judy's gaze, "I agree with him that his forces should come first in this case because, after all, they're the ones with the big guns. You've got one squad, he's got a thousand. There's all the proof you need. He doesn't hate the PCID, he just understands that you're smaller when it comes to operational capacity. Is that so hard to understand?" Jennifer Caplin looked to the side and cleared her throat softly, giving a shake of her head in response, "Are you both crystal fucking clear on all of the above?" They nodded; she glanced between them and shook her head, "I want a verbal fucking answer."

"Yes, ma'am." Carter said, having already slouched in his seat as far as he could and he nodded to Caplin, who remained silent for now.

"Okay, sure." She nodded, "That's...reasonable, yes."

"Fucking finally, by Geia's name." Her whole body shook with a series of deep breaths, and she calmed herself with a nod, directed at no-one in particular. Just like that, she returned to her seat and crossed her legs beneath herself, and responded in the most innocent way she could, "Now, where were we?" Carter cleared his throat.

"We were, uh...discussing the order of battle." He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small pair of eyeglasses, which he slid up his face, and Judy watched Caplin do the same, only hers were bigger and with thicker rims; Carter produced a file from one of the stacks and opened it to the first page, passing it to Caplin. They spoke rather courteously to one another, covering everything in jargon as usual, but abstaining from threats of forcing any extremities into any inappropriate cavities. Judy could do little other than nod, but her job did not consist of understanding; she got them to play fair, and that's all she wanted. A fire burned inside of her. One of both justice, and pride. This needed doing, she thought, and was long overdue.

No longer anyone's footstool. You are somebody, Judy Hopps. And you came here to do something which would help everyone. She felt her ankles cross beneath the lip of the chair with ease and she fixed her shirt, clasping the bottom button shut after it became undone during the course of her tirade. Caplin wanted to use her as a bargaining token, whilst Carter saw her as a simple obstacle on his way to accomplishing his goal. But in the moment she stood on the desk and gazed into his eyes, she saw something in Carter; something all those in their line of duty had: honour. Not even Carter was willing to tread on that. He came here to do a job, and the PCID turned to a burden; but now he knew.

This was the difference between Carter and Bogo, she thought. The difference between good and evil. Carter was simply acting out of ignorance of those around him, unlike Bogo, who knew what he had done, and was fully aware of the pain and suffering his actions had inflicted. To dispel such acts in Carter's case was as easy as showing him that he was wrong. More than once, Judy had imagined herself arguing with Bogo, attempting to sway him back to the side of reason and good, the side he joined in the first place, and revive that very same fire within him, but now she knew that to be impossible. Good and evil, she thought, are as simple as light and dark, but individually extremely complex; telling them apart is where true goodness could be seen. True virtue and chivalry. Nick would call her naive, but she did not care. Justice was immutable, and inevitable. It simply needed to be helped along on its way.

Seconds after Carter began listing the squads to which he could attach Alpha One, a moniker Judy had heard many times in the course of the conversation but still did not understand, someone pushed the tent flap open. It was a soldier, a wolf, clad in a short-sleeved olive shirt, a helmet, and with a rifle on his shoulder; he saluted Carter, and the latter saluted back.

"Sir, I've been instructed to report on the arrival of each new red fox, sir." Judy nearly lept up from where she sat, but instead just clung to the armrest, her full attention focused on the interloping messenger.

"Stand down, son. No need to be so formal." Carter commanded, and the wolf gave a nod, his heels pushing apart and his posture relaxing, but he still appeared to be on edge; Judy could hardly breathe, "What's the news?"

"One arrived on the second chopper in, sir." Before he even finished his sentence, Judy ran between his ankles and out of the tent. The voice continued behind her but she did not care. There was nothing else in the world besides the image of that helipad before her eyes. Bodies flew past her, some carried on stretchers, others walking slowly, civilians mingling with military personnel, but she did not see any of them; all she did was avoid them, jumping between their shuffling feet and clamouring limbs, simply to get to that helipad.

A pair of helicopters sat side-by-side on the helipad, with their doors wide open, and their twinned rotors sitting dormant. On the lip of one stood a shape she could hardly see, faintly orange, with a stained white shirt, but she knew instantly to whom it belonged, bouncing about in her vision; Nick. Nicholas Wilde. He truly did make it. A pair of orange arms unfurled before her indistinctly but she could not quite see them, their form becoming a blur between the tears which suddenly streamed from her eyes, unstoppable, mingling with the laughs that began slipping from her lips.

And then he embraced her; the scent she knew so well and adored with her every breath flooded her nostrils and all she could do was tug on his shirt as he held her, sitting down at once and pulling her impossibly close. Her paws sank into his back and felt over his spine. Judy could not form a single coherent thought in her mind in that moment, and everything became him; his presence, his closeness, his warmth, his return. Kisses found the top of her head, and all speech became lost between their sobs. The tears turned to laughs and then transformed back just as easily. One day they had been apart, but in Judy's mind, it may as well have been a lifetime.

The life they once had was gone, and their world had changed, but now he held her and none of it mattered one damn bit, so long as he still drew breath. Her body felt impossibly light. The beating of her heart had become wild, and through his shirt she could feel his, doing the exact same. There truly was hope, and she knew it. The last twenty-four hours, from shock and terror, to power, to agency, to the dialectics of good and evil, all those things vanished before her, leaving nothing but him, his green eyes, and his orange and cream fur. Nicholas Wilde; her husband, the love of her life, her safe harbour from all the storms of this Earth, her anchor, her equal: her everything.

"Carrots, by the Gods..." He repeated, over and over again, kissing her fur, the muzzle of her nose, anything he could find, "I love you, by the Gods, I love you so, so impossibly much..."

"N-Nick, you're alive, you're actually alive." She lifted her head and placed her paws on his cheeks, his eyes locking with hers, and his hot tears falling against her fingertips; he reciprocated the motion at once, and they pulled closer to one another, their foreheads touching as they laughed their way through sobs of joy, "I cannot believe this, you're actually here."

"I was so scared, so terrified I'd never see you again." He explained and she slid her eyes shut, nodding in response to each of those words, kissing him now, kissing the muzzle which stretched beneath hers, longer than her own, directly in the path of her lips, "Judy, I cannot believe it, you're actually real."

"I am, I am." She affirmed, not knowing what else to do, and not caring whether or not she made sense, "I love you, Nick. By Geia, I love you."

"It's all over now, there's no pain any-more. It's all over now. I'm here, Judy. I'm never going to leave again." He drew her into another embrace, and she felt his hear break beneath her and heal beneath her touch, both in the exact same second. "I'm here, I'm here", he sank into a brief silence, during which all she could hear was his breaths mixing with her own, mingling as one once more. And then she felt his lips find the side of her head, kissing her just like he did a thousand times before, that touch exactly the same but deeper somehow, more significant, simultaneously incredibly light and impossibly heavy, and his breaths rolled over her fur before he spoke.

"I'm home."


	16. Passing The Hat

They had been together for two years, and have known each other for almost two and a half; in that time, Judy had been convinced that she knew all of her husband's facial expressions. From anger to sadness, to the silent defeats and roaring victories, she saw on his face the aggregate of all their triumphs and falls. The corner of his lips would curl at the start of a smile, with the right preceding the left, and then it would stretch, burning a line across his features akin to the slow advance of a forest fire, until every muscle became subject to her intimate knowledge. The twitching of his brow as he struggled to get something to work, no matter what, the soft shiver of his lower jaw as fury consumed him, or the quiet, meddling grasp of concern, winding its way down the slope of his muzzle, and rending canyons within the orange.

 However, all those were subject to a moment's consideration before she drew any definite conclusions about how he felt; but he had one face which she could tell apart distinctly from all the other ones, and which was always so utterly striking that she could recognize it at once. The source of it was mundane, and rooted in a character trait of his she knew from the very beginning; his fear of needles. The sight of one never left him indifferent. It began at the edges, growing from concern to anger, and then to desperation, and finally, acceptance, all in the span of ten seconds or less. The first time he explained his phobia to her, wincing still from the IV inserted into his arm, placed there as a precaution immediately after his appendectomy, she laughed softly, and nodded in understanding. Nobody's perfect. Everyone has fears. His were needles, centipedes, and being buried alive. Judy never understood that last one, but she accepted them all, and loved each and every single one, along with the rest of him.

Now she watched in muted horror as the silver tip sank into the fur of Nick's forearm, digging deep, and probing for the vein. A small puff of blood rolled upwards inside the tube; she had been holding his paw in her own the entire time. She observed his face from the corner of her eye. Nick lay on his side, propped up by a pillow, his shirt removed and exposing every grim detail of the blood-soaked bandages beneath, and he looked back at her. There was nothing in his face, not an ounce of an expression. His green eyes burned with focus, but one that lay solely on her, and nothing around them, even with the shouted commands, whispered pleas, and distant cries of the myriad wounded. She felt along the edge of his palm. Not once did he press back, like he usually did. The bunny shook her head. She was imagining things, substituting different forms of presence for absence.

The air tasted bitter. Medical alcohol wafted through the tent. They waited for almost an hour before he was admitted for any sort of treatment. There were more pressing matters. During this time, they largely doted on one another, and she felt herself unable to tear her gaze from him, or to let him wander off, even for a second, to release the first firm grasp she had laid on him in twenty-four hours of complete and utter terror. The first object of concern for her was his physical state, exemplified most notably by that accursed gauze, and its countless stains, all rolled into one, distinguishable only by their hue. He assured her that it did not hurt, but beyond that, refused to acknowledge it. Now he sat there with veiled indifference and folded pointedly beneath every medical procedure that came his way. The sole moment during which Judy lost his touch was when he was ushered into a mobile x-ray, and the back to the bed; two fractured ribs, a mild concussion, slight damage to his ear-drums, and first-degree burns over five percent of his body, manifested by a few singed tufts of fur. Indifference. The doctor explained to him just how lucky he had been. Nick nodded. They removed his IV. Nothing, still. Not even a groan.

For a long time, Judy questioned her own judgement, and her own perception of things. Perhaps she imagined he'd act differently; her husband was a proud, cocky creature, and she never saw his spirits extinguished by anything, no matter how horrifying. Yet, she reminded herself. This was the diametric opposite of any situation in which they found themselves. Her ear perked as the nurse began to speak.

"And that's that. You may experience some slight ringing in your ears, or blurred vision, but outside of that, you're going to be perfectly fine." She was a pleasant-looking creature, a young sand cat, with deep, brown eyes, scathingly decorated by exhausted rings, and a pleasantly professional smile; but the muted neon lights that hovered above everything, she appeared positively harrowing, "However, we will need to ask you to expedite your departure from the hospital, as we're in dire need of beds, and you'll be well taken care of by tomorrow morning. Until then, there's a common tent not far from here. I'm sure you'll find two empty beds for both of you."

"Of course." He swung his legs off the gourney and slipped to the floor; a soft tug against Judy's paw and a nod in her direction made her stand as well, and she followed him, "That could've turned out worse."

"Yep." Judy affirmed, but did not know what else to say, "Are you hungry?"

"Gods, yes." He responded and she motioned towards the nearby mess tent, half-empty, but with white smoke wafting from its tin chimney, implying the presence of cooking, which manifested itself further through a faint scent wafting through the air, "I'm going to be a one-fox steamed cricket apocalypse." The joke was a thin one, but Judy chuckled regardless, feeling the need to affirm this odd outburst somehow; the colour was gone from his voice. They waited in line, armed with plastic trays. She hovered as close to him as she could. To her right stood a cheetah, thin and slender, and with a bandage on his face, dotted with smatterings of breaking crimson. The bunny looked at her own feet.

The carrots she took tasted plain and were delivered without seasoning. Judy idly chewed on one as she watched her husband destroy the plateful of rice and crickets in front of himself, taking breaks only for breath and needy gulps of water. A smile rose on her lips. She was imagining things, truly. There he was, unmistakably the fox she married, tearing into his food as if tomorrow were a dream. The scratch of the fork reminded her of a record player, skipping eagerly, voraciously almost, unstoppable in its resolve to rend asunder the entire portion with unparalleled quickness. Finally, it collapsed atop his knife, and he finished his glass of water, upon which he folded his fingers together and took to gazing into her, his expression one of both adoration and the very faintest hint of bewilderment. Judy knew how he felt, even without him having to say it; impossibly happy to finally see her, and only slightly questioning his own sanity at the sight. Twenty-four hours. For most couples, this would be an impalpable difference. On an ordinary day, she recounted mutely, that is. Not in the midst of this.

"I love you." He whispered to her, and his paw crept along the table, awaiting hers eagerly, and she threw the last carrot into her mouth swiftly, all the faster to respond to his silent invitation; his palm turned, and they held onto one another once more.

"I love you too." And then, silence. Unbroken, just like their locked gazes, until he began looking about himself abruptly, "What is it?"

"I'm just wondering where mother is." With that, Judy took to looking around as well, and across the room; a smattering of ill-defined shapes, hunched over their food and eating in silence, and occasionally chatting in hushed voices. But no sight of Clementine.

"You know how she is." The bunny gave a wave of her paw and swept her empty plate with a wedge of bread. She did not quite comprehend just how hungry she had been, until now, "Probably seeking out the nearest television."

"We should do the same." He echoed at once, and Judy's eyes went slightly wide at the suggestion; she hoped to talk to him for a minute, but by the time she had computed her arguments, Nick had already gotten up and made for the tray rack. She resisted the urge to sigh and followed him, "It should be in the common tent." With that, they made for the door, and she followed behind wordlessly. They departed the mess tent and made sharply to the right, towards the parked tanks. Darkness had fallen fully. Judy could barely think with the weight of the food in her gut. The carrot stew settled no better than stones.

The vehicle depot had been illuminated from all sides by spotlights since the last time she saw it, and some of the vehicles had been pulled out of their parking spaces, their hulls swarmed by technicians of varying ranks; beside the nearest one lay a trolley, a sizeable one, and a winch crane; they were loading ammunition. Judy felt herself shudder. Nick gave her a glance out of the corner of his eye but merely continued surveying the scene with measured indifference. A line of animals had begun piling into the tent just beside the depot, and Nick extended his step, making towards the entrance. Sure enough, once the wide, open flaps came into view, so did the countless beds, laid out in neat rows, and awaiting their assigned refugees; this was the tent which was previously zipped shut.

Clementine appeared before them as soon as they set foot inside, her unmistakably hunched appearance protruding starkly from a group of onlookers, all surrounding the same television set; Nick gave a wave towards one of the animals at the back, a gazelle, with her arm in a cast.

"Hornetta!" He called to her, and once they were close enough to each other, she pulled him into a friendly half-hug, "I'd like you to meet my wife, Judy."

"Pleasure to meet you!" The gazelle replied and looked to either side of herself. Her eyes drifted down in search of the bunny, but upon finding her, she bent her knees and offered a friendly hand, which Judy shook, "Sorry about that, I didn't realize you were a bunny."

"No harm done." Judy said, and felt her lips draw themselves into a warm smile; she could not quite understand why, but she at once liked Hornetta, "We're looking for Nick's mother, Clementine."

"She's right over there." The stood on her toes as she pointed, and gave a nod, ushering them both forward with a wave of her digits, "You're just in time. The president is about to speak."

Judy hung close to Nick once again, keeping track of his movements beside herself, and felt her smile maintain as he sought her paw out, and helped her along to the front of the crowd. In the centre of it all sat Nick's mother, reclining on the edge of one of the folding beds, and with two additional ones behind herself, each with a bag on it. She reserved two spots for them and now stared at the screen with a defiant half-scowl. It took the fox a moment to spot Judy, but once she did, her features melted into a joyous warmth, and she unfurled her previously coiled arms in an open embrace. Judy leapt into them, just like she did before, and felt her mother-in-law laugh gently.

"Judith, by the Gods, you're actually here!" She repeated, and Judy nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat, keeping her restraint in the face of overwhelming emotion. They pulled away to exchange glances. The warmth within Judy was indescribable, and despite the joy which the sight of Nick brought her, she could not help but feel as if something was missing. Now she knew what it was, and she hugged Clementine close for a second time, "I can't believe that Nicky was actually right." She tilted her head to the side slightly, "We feared the worst once Nick couldn't find any trace of you in the apartment, but he just..." She motioned towards her son, who made himself comfortable on the folding bed, cracking the very faintest smile at the sight before him, "He knew. There's no other way to describe it."

"It's just that..." He reached behind himself and starched his neck, "You know how sometimes you sense that there's something wrong with me before I do?" Judy nodded; she recalled the hay fever incident, where she was overcome by the idea that he was going to fall sick, and then he did, "I got that, but the other way around. I knew you were alive. Somehow." A soft laugh slipped his lips, and he helped Judy up onto the bed with a pull of his paw, "Don't ask me how."

"I had the exact same feeling." She leaned against his shoulder as she spoke, "I knew you were going to make it out."

"Guess couples really do have that additional level of perception." Nick explained, and she gave a nod and a smile, and sat up a little bit, just to peck his cheek slightly. There was nothing else she could add to that. All she did was pull her paw around his waist and feel him. For the last two years, Judy touched Nick in almost every way imaginable, and saw him from countless angles, but not once did she think that it could all feel new again; now it did. Perhaps it was the exhaustion. It did not matter. Now they waited for the president's address.

Hornetta swiftly moved in behind them, her good arm folded along her stomach, clasping at the wrist of her broken one. All around them, curious faces peered at this unorthodox gathering, and she saw a few of them look away soon after; the entire day was a roller-coaster of emotions for Judy, and this only served to remind her that, whilst her own family had been reunited, others may not have been that lucky. Directly opposite her, an otter turned away fully and slinked to the back of the line, and through the gaps in the crowd, she could see him sit in the corner and drop his head into his paw. Now it was her turn to avert her gaze. You can't save everyone, she reminded herself, and looked to Nick, and his tall posture, and steeled gaze.

The television rolled a news broadcast along, the same one it had been turning all day, and in the absence of additional analyses and information, returned to spinning the same footage as they always did, which Judy had already seen; fire, screaming, structural collapses, and destruction. Nick closed his eyes. She reached for his paw and pressed it tight with her own, and this time, he did press back, and she felt his breaths shake in his throat. This was the hell he escaped. Beside the footage itself lay a small, rolling set of letters, with the names of twenty-eight reporters which were confirmed as killed, on a grey background. No sound played from the television. At the bottom of the screen lay a timer, counting down to the moments until the president's address to the nation. It was only a matter of time, and Judy was surprised that it didn't happen sooner, but reasoned that The Council must've been by far one of the busiest official bodies that day.

The minutes slipped by, and Judy's mind wandered to questions she still had no answer to; she felt cold grasp her more fully now, from deep inside, and her own eyes closed, to press the enduring silence into the backdrop of the mental noise which consumed her. The distance in Nick was palpable now. She expected this. One does not survive hell without making it a core component of the self, and internalizing the suffering. Just like she repressed the vision of the crying otter, Nick repressed the entire past day, and she could not imagine how much it tore at him from inside. Where were they to go? What were they to do now when the only home they've ever known lay consumed by flames, in a conflagration of all things material, where even the grasp between them turned to a shade of its former self, between the unspoken verses and sliding doors? All she knew in that moment, when his lungs heaved deeply, to lift some unseen burden from themselves, is that she loved him, and he loved her, purely and truly. Would that be enough? The bunny gritted her teeth. It must be. This is all we have now. One another. A sharp beep roused her. The gathered eyes shot to the television.

"We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a live address from the President of Pancontinentia, Herbert Paul Rosewood."

Images dissipated like a great mist, and Nick's grasp turned pained, straining to keep its hold on her; and then, an empty podium, backed by a white veil, and covered in small prints of the seal of Pancontinentia; rectangular shield divided into four, and with each partition symbolizing a different component of the country's diverse ecosystem. Beneath it, the state's motto, too small to read, but Judy knew it by heart: 'To Each His Dues'. It was the very briefest excerpt from the Fables, and a hot-button issue in the Council, part of which wanted to maintain a secular image, whilst the other half considered it an inseparable part of every Pancontinentian's national identity. Cameras flashed along the empty screen, evidently as a test, and two cheetahs appeared from either side, with sunglasses on their faces and clad in black suits. The secret police, there to protect the commander in chief from any possible attempts on his life. Moments passed. The entire tent was in perfect silence. Judy imagined that everyone had dropped what they were doing, save for the surgeons in the tent adjacent, still busy saving lives for as long as possible, without pause or respite.

If Judy had to sum up the President's appearance in a single word, it would be 'demolished'.

The buttons on his suit were as neat as always, and the white shirt beneath it, topped with a simple black tie, was smooth and firm, but his features were in a state of complete distress; he was a horse, and his species was a proud one, with him being a prime example of it if there ever was one. A long, brown muzzle, with white spots on either eye, and a diamond shape in the middle of it, and intelligent blue eyes flanking it. Two ears, situated on either side of his messy black hair, which flicked about as the camera shutters clicked. But the bags under his eyes were as bad as that of the nurse from earlier, or Caplin, or Grover, or anyone else who had been involved in this; demolished. Rosewood opened his mouth twice to begin, but no sound came from it, so he cleared his throat and took a sip of water, steadying himself by grasping either side of the podium more firmly, and with a greater sense of resolve. A far cry from his electoral charisma.

"For the first time in my career as a politician, I am brought to make a speech like this." He raised a handful of cards from the podium and unfurled them lightly as a display to those watching, "And I have been given a series of pointers on how to begin, but..." Rosewood swallowed, "I just cannot. Not at a time like this."

There was a momentary pause, and even the flickering shutters had stopped, leaving nothing but silence behind.

"Pancontinentia has been the victim of a grave attack today, one which threatens the very core of our beliefs and values as a peoples and a nation. Earlier this morning, at roughly fifteen minutes past ten, over ninety co-ordinated explosions occurred within the down-town area of Zootopia. Preliminary findings suggest that..." Once again, he paused, and glanced around the room, with his lips coiled briefly into a line, "Roughly one hundred and fifty thousand Pancontinentian citizens have lost their lives. The Federal Guard has been mobilized immediately. What we initially thought to be a series of bombing attacks quickly became more, however, and now we have, for the first time in this country's history, evidence of large-scale organized terrorism on our soil. I have been also tasked with informing you that the Federal Guard has made contact with the hostile forces within the city itself, and is currently in the process of neutralizing them."

Nick exchanged a glance with Judy, and she watched, helpless as his ears fell back; he had seen all of this, in person.

"Further information on this matter remains classified at this time, but I assure you that we are doing our very best to ensure that everyone who is still inside Zootopia's Central District is brought out safely. I promise you, as your president elect, to bring those responsible to justice, and to ensure that they pay for the crimes which they have committed." Rosewood leaned in closer over the podium, and locked eyes with the central camera, "We will prusue them tirelessly and mercilessly, and the unspeakable horror of their acts is brought to light in their fullest extent." With that, he pulled back again, and gave a nod to the audience, "Thank you for your attention. More information will become available in time."

And with that, the podium stood empty again. Chatter welled up from the gathered crowd, and Nick locked eyes with Judy, giving a soft nod of affirmation; expressionless and empty, vacant, distant, not at all here in the present moment. Judy could only pull him closer to herself. Then, abruptly, and without warning, another beep, this time louder, and shriller. The screen flickered to black.

A seal appeared from the darkness, on a red background, with the same colour as the camouflage of The Order. Words shone beneath it; 'dulce est decorum pro patria mori, nam patres et sanguine'. Judy felt the breath leave her lungs. It is sweet and glorious to die for one's country, she mouthed, recounting Trisha's words with chilling clarity. A choir of gasps erupted from the onlookers, and nervous chatter erupted, with questions being asked hastily and hushed down with equal speed. Then he himself appeared.

Thelonious Bogo, clad in the raiments of a general. Ribbons and medals hung from his breast, but his garment was a deep crimson, and his digits lay folded in front of himself; the scene was a wide angle, filmed in front of a barren wall, with a row of creatures behind him, standing in the shade, their faces and forms wholly invisible. He raised his hands, and then clapped softly, with his lips drawn into a provoking grin. Judy's pupils shrank.

"Touching, truly touching." Every word he spoke sent a wave of fire up Judy's spine, and it was Nick's turn to bend into her, to shield her from what they were seeing; his own features glowed with hatred, and Judy could swear she heard him snarl under his breath, "Some of you are perhaps unaware of who I am. I consider this a failing on the part of your government." He raised a digit, and lowered it immediately, and his brow was knitted tightly into a hateful scowl, but one of victory, not defeat, "My name is Theolonious Bogo, chief Justiciar and Head Executor of the independent state of Patria Majoris, and its armed forces, The Order of the New Dawn." He raised his wrist and glanced at it as if he were checking a watch, "Sovereign as of ten minutes ago."

This time, the air itself felt still, and heavy, akin to concrete, each ounce of it pouring onto Judy's shoulders and robbing her of her breath.

"We claim full responsibility for the acts of liberation which took place today." Nick muttered something quietly, and Judy grasped his wrists, to stop him from lunging forward, "If your government wishes to stop our emancipation, they are free to do so." The screen flashed to a grainy recording, taken from high up on some undefined structure, and showing a line of columns, to which lay tied about a dozen forms, stripped to the nude; before them stood a row of figures with an uncanny resemblance to those Judy had seen in news footage. Each clasped a rifle, "But they'll have to play by our rules." Silence, "For every incursion within our borders, or any act of aggression against our forces, ten Pancontinentian citizens will pay with their lives." The soldiers cocked their weapons and stood apart from one another, one before each column, and then raised them; there was not an ounce of Judy's consciousness that contained form in that moment. She knew what was about to happen. Everyone kept looking, "We shall consider these payment for the twelve combatants we've lost."

Gunfire.

Some looked away, others screamed, and a few wept. Most were silent. The rattle was a din, barely there at all, a distant drumming, akin to rain on a tin roof. Those tied to the posts gave a grotesque twist, and then their struggle came to an end, one by one. The last to die was an elephant, which had taken two bursts to cease his fidgeting against the binds, but even he was extinguished at once, until no signs of life remained. The camera focused on Bogo again. Hot tears ran down Judy's cheeks. One of the giraffes to her right fell to her knees, and watched the proceedings unfold with upturned palms, as if she were praying, but without words or motions.

"These are our demands." Bogo then raised a sheet of paper and held it before himself, "Full sovereignty of territory and executive action within that territory, international recognition, and the right to defend ourselves from any hostile acts. Once these are met, there will be more." Now he stood, and placed his palms flat on the table, to lean forward again, silently, without speaking, and gaze deeply into the camera; hatred burned in them, "And finally, for the grand reveal and the point of this broadcast..." He gave a wry smile, one which spoke of a profound insatiability and hubris, "The dashing of all your hopes. Look upon the works of your government and despair."

His image faded into that of an oblong shape, which Judy could not make out through tear-staned eyes, but she felt Nick pull closer, evidently having noticed what was happening, and whisper into her ear: submarine.

"For those of you who are unsure as to what you're seeing, this is a Trident-class vessel." His voice continued, as penetrating and despicably close as before, and only growing in its madness, in its pure insistence towards power, "A deep-sea submersible with fission-based propulsion, and six Polaris short-range ballistic missiles. Nuclear missiles. It can stay beneath the water's surface for an entire year, and can reach any point on the globe fully undetected." The broadcast focused on him once again, and his pushing of a pencil along the table, playfully almost, lips pursed forward into a puckered smile, "Here's a little history lesson: forty-seven years ago, we lost the Great War. As a consequence of it, the Federal Government of Pancontinentia has had severe restrictions applied to the size and variety of its armed forces. The vessel in question is in clear violation of that agreement."

He slammed the desk with his fist, "Your government, the very same government upon which you rely for salvation, and for a solution to our independence, has just doomed all of you. This news broadcast is going out to both Indo-Thasia and Russo-Slavia as we speak, and they won't be happy about this. Oh no, not at all." He leaned back in his chair and pressed the pencil between either of his index fingers, "You see, the documents we were forced to sign, a motion of complete and utter capitulation, occupation, and otherwise embarrassment, also included a complete ban on any and all nuclear weapons." Bogo reached for another slip of paper, but unfolded this one with a slightly more dramatic motion, clasping the edge of the paper first and snapping it open, akin to some heavenly proclamation, "Within the vessel we found this, just in case all of you aren't quite convinced yet."

There was a momentary lull, which Bogo used to clear his throat, "'This is a delivery voucher, printed by Hephaestus Defence and Security Solutions limited, hereby certifying the delivery of one Trident-class submarine, armed with six Polaris-class short-range ballistic missiles, each outfitted with a medium-yield twenty-four kiloton warhead, to the Federal Guard of Pancontinentia. The order has been carried out as instructed, and the vessel is hereby certified as having berthed safely within the Zootopia South Docks blacksite, along with its payload.'" The beating of Judy's heart nearly overshadowed the words which spilled from the speakers, "'Order placed by General Amis Sweetfang, July fifth, twenty-seven fifty-five. Signed off on August ninth, twenty-seven fifty-six.'"

"As all of you can probably imagine, honourable citizens of the dying state of Pancontinentia, our former captors would have found the submarine to be enough reason to dispose of us. But the ballistic missiles..." His lips drew themselves into a grin as he clasped the paper shut and laid it flat onto the table, "You can expect a declaration of war in about an hour or so. Have a good evening, and remember..." His grin grew wider, "Your government has your best interests at heart."

Nothing. The broadcast disappeared. CPNN returned.

The monolithic silence continued for a few moments upon the termination of the broadcast, and Judy wiped her tears swiftly, her breath gone from her lungs completely, and replaced by a burning substance of sorts, one which she could not identify even if she wanted to. Sweat ran down her back. She felt it pool at the base of her spine. Nick turned towards her slowly and then stared ahead, deep into her, making it clear that he had been just as lost for words as she was. She half-expected the first cry to be one of insurrection, or revolution, or some other form of insult. Instead, it was the last thing she expected.

"What the fuck?"

The entire room turned to the source of the clamour, and found a porcupine with wide eyes still staring at the screen, and his hands clasped open on either side of his body. He turned to those present.

"What the actual fuck just happened?!"

An argument ensued swiftly, with many multiple animals taking different sides, but Judy was not there to hear any of it; she was making for the door as quickly as she could. Nick was behind her momentarily, not wasting any time questioning his wife's instincts. A single command rang out in the bunny's brain, crystal clear, and overpowering any sense of noise which may have made itself at home there:

Find out who's lying to whom.

* * *

Each lunging step forward tore at Nick's stitches. He maintained his pace, however, and clasped a paw over the wound, to keep the bandage in place and stop it from slipping. She ran past the camp gate, giving the confused guard a wave of her paw and yelling that she was a police officer. A ramp impeded their progress; Judy was quick to jump over it whilst Nick skidded under it, struggling to right himself on the other side, but managing with a slight stumble in his step. A hill stood before him, with a smaller camp atop it. The uphill path between the two lay shrouded in darkness. Judy pressed onwards, and he watched as her form locked onto the flickering spotlights, to keep her moving. He felt the dirt beneath him slip and tear slightly. His shattered ribs ached. Every breath was like fire. The adrenaline in his blood died down since he arrived, but now kicked up again, and he fought the weight which invaded his mind, commanding him to sleep, to find a place to rest; war. Everything became secondary.

The gate of the second camp was wide open, and she took a sharp left, seemingly guided by instinct. Nick's eyes narrowed at the lights. For a moment, he could see the city in the distance, through a crack in his line of sight, and the fires made his heart race even faster; they burned just as intensely as they did when he was in there. Trapped. Relying on their government to free them. He felt a thought break into his conscious mind and he winced slightly: Bogo was right. They were doomed. Unless they took action now, to prevent the unthinkable, they were all doomed to an equal extent. Only Bogo did not understand that his sovereign state would not survive either. Nick's train of thought collapsed as he watched Judy dive into one of the tents, and he followed her in.

Everything was breaking down.

In one corner sat a lioness, on a chair, clad in a suit and tie, and with both undone and drenched in sweat, and a pistol between her paws, having raised it in front of herself and pointed it to the other side of the room. Opposite her, a bull, obviously a military creature with a row of medals on his breast and a finely-polished uniform, stained now with drops of blood, and his hand clasped his own shoulder. Between the two stood a fox, but one which bore no resemblance to Nick; his fur a pale white, just like his eyes, two small, round implements adorned with a pair of tiny red dots.

"Jennifer, please!" The fox called, "Put the gun down, there's no need for this!"

"I am fully willing to kill you too, Grover." She reached up and unfurled her tie fully, until it split into two strands on either side of her shoulders, and hung loosely; then she stood. Her posture was that of all lions: regal and proud, but tense, deeply wounded, as if someone had just kicked her in the back. She pointed to the bull with her weapon, "He fucking killed us! He killed all of us, Grover! And if you're going to protect him..." She spat, "You're no better than he is."

"In Geia's name, what is going on here?!" Judy spoke up now, from the corner, she herself glancing between all three occupants of the tent, "What the fuck are you doing?!"

"Stay out of this, Hopps!" Caplin motioned to her now with the gun, and Nick instantly took a step forward, standing halfway between his wife and the lioness, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Nicholas Wilde." He explained and bared his teeth, his tone as calm and contained as ever, but with a cautionary streak, "And that's my wife you're threatening there. I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Both of you, stay back." Her thumb moved up and she released the safety on the gun with a click, "I've got something to deal with here."

"Why are you doing this?" Judy demanded, and Caplin merely shook her head; the bunny then looked to Grover, who hung his head low and took a step to his immediate left, getting out of the line of fire, and staring at his feet with his paws behind his back, "Can someone please fill me in on what is happening?"

"Agent Cap-" The bull began, but was cut short by his captor.

"This sack of shit right here bought an illegal fucking submarine, armed it with nukes, violated three different non-aggression agreements, and caused a war!" Caplin snarled and narrowed her eyes, to raise her other paw and clasp the base of the gun, steadying it, "Now that we're all going to die, well...I'm gonna make sure I take him with me."

"There's a way out of this, for goodness sake!" Judy called, but it was a plea more than it ever was a statement; Nick's entire body was frozen. If this was going to explode, they had to flee before the lioness turned the gun to them, "Carter, please, tell me that she's wrong! Please!" The bull glanced aside, "Please!"

"I had no knowledge of the submarine's purchase." The general spoke calmly and raised himself from his corner, his body having slumped against the table, and used his hands to steady himself on the edge, sitting up slightly, but withdrawing his whole body back, and keeping his head tucked deeply into his own collar; his form shivered in terror, "Amis Sweetfang is to blame. He did this of his own accord. The Federal Guard had noth-" Once again, Caplin cut him off.

"Liar!" She bellowed, "You don't even have the fucking dignity to owe up to your mistakes at a time like this!"

"Fucking listen to me, Caplin." Words spilled from his lips quickly and he jutted his finger at the agent, "I swear on my mother's grave that neither I nor any of my subordinates had anything to do with this."

"Amis was your fucking subordinate, you sack of shit." Her retort was swift and merciless, "Or are you saying that your command structure fell apart?"

"He did this in complete secrecy, without informing any of us about it." The bull reached up and tugged on his collar, to pull it away slightly and take a deep breath; both he and Caplin were drenched in sweat, "There was no way we could've known."

"Call Sweetfang right now." Carter tilted his head, "Right fucking now!"

"Alright." The bull stood and straightened his vest out, and his shoulders rolled back, giving a muted crack, "Grover, dial in High Command; the Centralia branch." The arctic fox nodded and raised a finger to say something, but lowered it at once, opting instead to give a restrained nod of acceptance; he pressed a few keys on the keyboard, and Caplin moved forward, standing behind Carter. She pressed the gun into his back, level with his spine, "Is this really necessary, Jennifer?"

"Shut the fuck up." She pushed him slightly, "Just pretend that I'm not here."

Nick glanced to Judy, but she did not return the gesture; she was staring at the chaos before her blankly, mouth hanging open, and paws by her sides. He moved towards her slowly and grasped her wrist. She jumped. They stood behind Caplin, unseen, and Nick took a sideways step, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Judy. They held onto one another. The fate of the world hung in the balance. Rather than a dramatic ringing sound, or a choir of technical beeps, the computer gave a low hum, the exact same one Nick had heard countless times. Even the military used MuzzleTime for their communications. Four tones passed. No answer. The fifth one was cut short. A sheep appeared on the screen.

"General Sweetfang cannot take your call right now, he's-" The secretary began, and Nick watched as Caplin pushed the gun deeper into Carter's back, "Is...is something wrong?"

"Get me Sweetfang. I don't care how, just do it." Carter's voice was textureless and bereft of all tone, save for a commanding one, demanding a swift resolution to the present situation; the sheep nodded, "Hurry."

"Yes, sir." The screen faded to a logo of the Federal Guard, and began playing elevator music; Judy looked up to Nick for a moment, and he looked at her. If the situation had been less tense, this may have elicited a chuckle from him. Now it was just a bitter reminder of the formal manner in which they decided the fates of millions; no different than calling the DMV to have your permits checked. The humming tune continued for what seemed to be an eternity. Nick stared up at Carter. A bead of sweat slid down the back of the bull's head. Caplin's paw shook slightly, but she kept the gun pressed firmly against her quarry, and did not release it even for a moment. In the corner, the Arctic fox from earlier, whom Nick identified as Grover, leaned on the edge of a table and picked at his claws. Just as the tune was reaching its third repetition, the screen disappeared, and the sheep appeared again, only looking more distressed than before, her wool a mess, "I...I don't know how to tell you this, but..." She looked away for a moment; a tear slid down her cheek, and she gave a brief, momentary sob, "General Amis Sweetfang is dead."

"W-what?" Carter's mouth slowly opened, "Excuse me, what did you say?"

"We've tried to get into his office, but he locked it. We've had security break the door down and, oh Gods..." The secretary composed herself as quickly as she could, and wiped the tears from her eyes with one of her three digits, "He's killed himself."

"By the Gods..." Carter spoke up. Not even Grover could remain neutral, and he turned towards the screen, arms loose by his sides, and mouth agape, in the same manner as all those present, "Thank you, ma'am. You're relieved of duty until further notice." The sheep nodded, and the screen disappeared.

"I've got twelve bullets." Caplin said, pulling the gun away from Carter's back now, and laying it flat in her paw, as if to offer it to the group, "Who wants to go first?" The joke was a hollow one, and nobody laughed. Carter stumbled forward. His whole form began to slump. All strength abandoned him at once, and Nick watched the highest-ranking military official in all of Pancontinentia collapse into a folding chair, utterly defeated. His forehead sank into his hands, and he sighed.

"We're screwed." The bull said softly and looked up, to glance at the group through glossing eyes, "We've got no-one to hold responsible for this. The Indo-Thasians and Russo-Slavs are going to declare war on us." He chuckled to himself madly, "Twenty-five years I've worked to disarm the Federal Guard and get us to assimilate, and now they're going to nuke us. We've got nothing. No means of retaliation, no satellite system to defend ourselves with, not even a fucking squadron of interceptors." The bull glanced towards Caplin, "The world just ended."

"Well, then." A voice came in from the left, and Nick turned, only to find Grover clasping his paws together and give a polite nod, topped with a pleasant smile, but an empty one, "Thank you all for working with me all this years, thank you to officer Hopps for her valiant heroics, and to Caplin for being a good friend. Now, if you'll excuse me..." The fox gave each of those present a brief bow, "I am going to go and walk into a mushroom cloud." With that, he pulled the tent flap aside and walked away. A moment of silence came and went.

"So that's it, then?" Judy shook her head and raised her paws, only to let them fall slack by her sides, "We're all going to die?"

"Yep." Caplin responded. She reached into her pocket and retrieved her cigarettes, and sat down beside Carter, putting one between her lips, and offering the bull one as well; he accepted and nodded politely, "Bogo's just committed suicide, by the by. There's no feasible fucking way the communist parties of either federation is going to let him live, let alone keep his supremacist views, or implement his plans of a 'pure' nation." She chuckled, and Carter echoed her soft laugh with one of his own, "I assume both federations are currently in the process of dismantling their embassies and severing all ties with us. And as I'm sure you're aware, that is the first step on the road to war."

"I'm going to call the president." Carter stood up and pressed his hands into fists; Caplin merely watched him do so. He dialled the code with the keyboard and stood before the screen, rigid and unmoving, as Judy clung to Nick's paw behind him. There was no formal way in which Nick could quantify his thoughts at the present moment; somehow, Judy knew all of these animals, and had evidently worked with them before, and the first time he met all of them, the saviours and helpers, they told him that he's dead. Now all he wanted to do was tug on Judy's paw, get her out of there, and spend whatever time they still had left together. A sharp beep cut his thoughts off once more, and he quietly cursed the circumstances for never allowing him to finish anything, or even think about it fully. On the screen before them, the seal of the Council appeared, and was swiftly replaced by the face of the President himself. At no point during his life did Nick consider the possibility of actually speaking to the President. What was he to ask him? Now, nothing any-more.

"Mr. President." Carter began, and folded his hands in front of himself, expertly concealing the cigarette he had lit not too long ago, "What are my orders?" The horse on the screen before them was utterly expressionless. He reached up and wiped his forehead with the back of his palm, and then sighed, heavily and with a sense of ceremony.

"Surprisingly, I do." Rosewood responded and reached out, towards the edge of the desk, "In case either federation attempts to pursue an armed route as a solution, we are to surrender unconditionally."

"Sir?" Carter tilted his head to the side.

"Spare me the formalities, Adam. Both you and I will be out of a job in a matter of minutes." The president elect reached up and tilted the camera down, and then collapsed in his chair; his fingers skipped along the buttons of his suit as he undid them, and let either side of it fall slack against his forearms, "Fighting this is certain death."

"What if they decide to pursue a nuclear solution?" Three pairs of eyes exchanged nervous glances behind Carter, whilst he himself continued undaunted, but with a more relaxed posture, no longer hiding his cigarette, "There's no way we can surrender then."

"Obviously." Rosewood replied, "All we can do is run the sirens and hope that the nuclear wasteland that comes after won't be too toxic."

Nick watched as Judy wandered around in a circle, shaking her head, and mouthing something to herself. Her paw slipped out of his and he watched, helpless, as his wife collapsed in a heap on the floor. He was by her side at once, holding her up, and getting her back onto her feet, to pull her to the nearest chair; the whole time, he cast glances in Caplin's direction, cursing her under his breath. You did this, he heard himself think, you could've fucking stopped this but you didn't, and now its all going up in flames. He lifted Judy onto the chair and let her curl into his side, lying limply on his shoulder, and supported by nothing but her husband's paw. This was well and truly it. The weight of the impact only struck him now, a train full of bricks, on fire, with no brakes, shattering in a tremendous calamity. What time was it? It was an inane thought, and one which had no place in the present moment, but became all he could focus on. What time was it? How long ago had they last slept?

Both Carter and Rosewood were silent for a very long time, and merely stared at one another, or at least did so until Carter began pacing, nervously again, but with no point, no true purpose or distance in his step. They could not run. Nick briefly considered the Golden Coast, or some remote place in the hills, where they could stock up on food and supplies and ride out the apocalypse. He looked down at his lap. There was home, the only thing worth holding onto, for which he fought his way through horrors unimaginable, only to have safety and security ripped out from under him by the cold paws of chance. What if they boarded a ship or stole it, commandeered it, and made for Indo-Thasia? There was no time, and no means of transportation to get them to a port, and even then, whether or not they'd have enough time before the bombs hit was questionable. He felt like crying, but had no energy to do so; all his tears had already been shed. Now all he could do is watch his wife's chest rise and fall, softly, as if she were sleeping, in the cold depths of unconsciousness. Chance is a cold bitch, he muttered, and Caplin nodded, evidently having overheard him. Gone. All of it. Up in flames.

There really was no chance that they had. From the moment Bogo's men took charge and command of the city, and detonated those bombs, from the very first second in which the buffalo's fist made contact with Judy's form, their fates were inexorably sealed. The greatest act of evil in time immemorial had managed to destroy even itself, and leave nothing in its wake; no flags, no anthems, no borders, and none of the patriotic tendencies which some Council members peddled so fervently. What good did any of it do them? None. Forty-seven years ago, they had the chance to surrender completely and become a communist state, just like those which threatened them now; and all of this would've been avoided. He caressed Judy's back. Now they would die. At least, he thought, at the very least, we'll die together. The ploys and schemes of those in power could do a great many things, but they were inseparable. Nick felt nothing, except love. Undying commitment towards the one creature in his life which always mattered.

The call, one of silence rather than conversation, and quiet pondering of the circumstances which awaited them, became interrupted. A small tab appeared in the centre of the president's form. It was an incoming call, two in fact, combined into one.

"What the fuck?" Not only did Nick never think he'd meet the president, he also thought that the latter never cursed; but there it was, "It must be the ambassadors." Carter dropped his cigarette and extinguished it with his foot against the cold dirt floor, and watched as the president swiftly buttoned his suit up again, mimicking his subordinate's rigid posture. The screen divided itself into three panels. In the middle one, Rosewood, flanked on the left by a tiger, and on the right by a hippo; both wore nearly identical light brown uniforms, and black-rimmed officer's hats, each adorned with a small pin. Either pin had one feature in common, which was the bright red hammer and sickle on the front, but backed by different things; the Indo-Thasian symbol, a red star, and the Russo-Slav one, a globe. They gave a pair of polite nods.

"President Rosewood, General Carter." The hippo greeted, through a thick accent, "We understand that you find yourself in an uncomfortable situation."

"You could say that, yes." The former responded, "Now that you're here, we'd just like to say one thing."

"We're listening." This time, it was the Russo-Slav ambassador that replied.

"Consider this an immediate and unconditional capitulation to either of your federations, effective immediately, without an ounce of resistance." The shivers in Rosewood's voice became more apparent as he neared the end of his sentence, which elicited a confused glance from either ambassador, "Our territory is yours. Our government will dissolve at once and not cause any problems for either of you."

"Very well." The tiger was the first to speak, and he turned towards a specific corner of the screen, evidently addressing his Indo-Thasian colleague directly, and then looked back towards Rosewood, "Both I and ambassador Xióng shall contact our respective marshals at once. The planned course of action thus far has been to invoke article seventy-four, sub-article nine of the disarmament agreement, which states that, in the unlikely event..." The ambassador stressed the term 'unlikely' with added weight, which prompted Nick to exchange another glance with Caplin, "...of its breach, we are to take full control of your territories by means of a provisional single-party socialist government, as per the agreed upon terms of our temporary occupation." The tiger cleared his throat, "This matter is settled, then."

"Sir, if I may be so bold..." The president began and watched both ambassadors nod, "This means that there will not be an attack, correct?" The two envoys exchanged glances and then shook their heads rather pointedly, and in slight confusion.

"Why would there be?"

"Because we've broken the agreement, and we've basically given a despot full access to nuclear weapons." Rosewood explained swiftly, "You're fully within your right to bomb Pancontinentia with nuclear weapons. It's what all of us have been expecting."

"President Rosewood, we are not the same as you, and we do not think in the same way." The hippo insisted in retort, "Our primary concern at this moment is not condemning millions of innocents to a horrendous demise simply as payment for their government's mistakes." He drummed his digits along the console in front of himself, "We need to dispose of this Bogo indiviudal and his illegitimate state by the name of Patria Majoris, before he incinerates not only your citizens, but ours too. This is our goal at the moment, along with the rescue of anyone still trapped within the city."

"You're...by the Gods, you're serious." Rosewood spoke up, after a moment of silent consideration, and his lips drew themselves into a smile; Caplin shot to her feet, and stared at Carter, wide-eyed, and grinning. Nick felt his heart skip ten straight beats; if he had any energy left, he may have screamed, from sheer joy, "What does this mean, exactly?"

"This means that our forces will take charge of the situation, and commandeer all of your forces, effective immediately." The Russo-Slav ambassador chimed in, and broke the very faintest smile at the celebration unfolding in front of himself, "General Carter?" He asked, and the bull broke eye contact with Caplin, sterring his gaze back to the screen, "You will remain at your post until tomorrow at noon, at which point you will sign all of your troops and equipment to us. And then you're going to be dismissed." He then motioned towards Caplin, who had just appeared at the very edge of his vision, "And I assume you're Jennifer Caplin, field commander for the PCID, correct?"

"Yes, sir." The lioness said and quickly took to fixing her uniform, buttoning her shirt up and disposing of the tie, until she appeared almost professional, "What are my orders?"

"Round up all of your forces and pass on any and all documentation to us." She gave a series of nods and watched as the ambassadors called for their aides, their respective languages unintelligible to Nick, but only serving to grant him additional relief, "You're going to be commandeered by a united branch of ITAFSS and RUAFSS."

"Yes, sir." The lioness said, and stood straight, saluting the animal which was once an ambassador, but now, for all intents and purposes, had become her superior, "Any further instructions?"

"Continue with your rescue effort and proceed with securing footholds within the city." The hippo explained, and gave a nod to his counterpart, one of tacit agreement; evidently they had discussed this before, "We have been monitoring your progress thus far, and will continue to do so. Well done." And then the ambassadors vanished. Silence fell over the gathered crowd. Before Nick even knew what was happening, the president stood up, and began punching the air in front of himself, turning to the secret service members behind himself and giving a loud cheer. Papers flew up, thrown into the air by none other than Caplin, and she jumped forward, embracing Carter, hugging him deeply while he twirled her around in the air. They laughed just as loudly as the president. Joy, sheer and utter joy. They had been given a second chance. Mercy.

Nick merely bent down, and poked Judy's head with his nose, his lips drawn into an almost mad smile, of a creature demolished and rebuilt dozens of times in a single day, but for once firm, despite the fact that he no longer had a home or a country. She sighed and rolled onto her back.

"Hi." He whispered to her, and she opened her eyes, bloodshot and tired, mirroring his own, "Guess what?"

"What?" The bunny leaned up and pecked him on the lips, and he held her close to himself, cradling her almost, as he touched noses with her, "Are we dead yet?"

"Not at all." He glanced to the side, "Pancontinentia doesn't exist any-more, but we're going to live."

"Yay." She shut her eyes again and wrapped her arms around his neck, to raise herself deeper into his grasp, and a soft chuckle drifted into his ears, which he echoed at once; it was the lightest thing he had done all day, "Take me to bed."

The cries and cheers followed them all the way down the side of the hill. But Nick could not hear them, nor could he see the celebrations which slowly began spreading through either camp, where everything had been turned on its head and righted again, over and over; instead he watched the stars above, and listened to the soft snore of Judy as she lay in his arms, firmly asleep from the moment they left the tent.

They were not going to waste their second chance.


	17. You've Haunted Me All My Life

Judy had never been outside of Pancontinentia. Her parents were both highly unadventurous sorts, and thus travel was little more than a thing to be admired from afar, in the same vein as an expensive car or a luxurious house; something for those that could afford it, but not an object of concern for the average bunny. This was a front, but one which Judy noticed only after she left home. Her mother would sigh wisftully every time she mentioned the places she and Nick had visited, and there would always be this moment of pause where the older bunny's eyes would drift behind her daughter, and focus on something distant, indistinct. Judy's mother was a trapped creature; trapped by tradition, by marriage, by convention.   
  
Her world was limited and narrow. But even she felt this draw towards something bigger beyond the horizon, and despite the pain which Judy felt each time she would see this, she knew that she could do little to help her mother. Hers was a self-imposed exile. Judy just quietly hoped that her mother wouldn't implode one day and throw everything away in pursuit of all the things she had never done. There were logistical problems to travelling, too. Fitting eighteen brothers and sisters, all much younger than Judy and with twice as much energy, onto any means of transportation which would require of them to sit still for a prolonged period of time was nearly impossible.   
  
The lack of travel in her youth also meant a lack of crossing borders, and what was a routine thing to most well-off individuals was a mythical and strange thing to Judy. They were simple lines on a map, but always concealed behind themselves a world into which she could peer solely through photographs or post-cards, one where every tradition and social norm she had grown up with lay dissolved and disjointed. So she never crossed. Her passport consisted of the plastic insert with her identificiation on it, the aritificial plastic sleeve which encased it, and several dozen empty pages, which were used for stamps and visa permits; all blank. Once or twice she opened hers and compared it to Nick's, which was just as empty, and sighed, quietly wondering to herself whether she would ever break that barrier.   
  
Sapients had broken many barriers before; that of knowledge, of sound, and the edge of space. If one still stood in her way, one as self-imposed as her mother's disconnected silence on the topic, that would be the national one. No drastic change would be incurred by that crossing. Nick would not even notice. He'd simply sit beside her in the plane and complain about the price of the in-flight meal. But she still dreamed of it.   
  
But there it was, just outside the tent, happening before her groggy eyes. Neither of them were quite aware of what was happening just yet. They were the only ones that gathered to watch. Most others kept to themselves, some still struggling to contact family in the city, whispering words of consolation to one another, and passing weighted glances. There was little else to do for the couple but exchange kisses and talk in hushed voices; small talk wore on them quickly, and Judy could see just how tired Nick was, how sluggish and distant his responses were, and how little of what she said engaged him. Earlier that very same night, she felt him slip away from her for a moment and retreat somewhere, but she did not act on it, choosing to instead take it as a shift in the blankets or a change of his posture. But he was clearly not there any more. Next time she would act, she mouthed as she made a promise to herself, and ran her paw flatly across his side of the cot. Something happened in the city that he did not tell her of.   
  
Something which ate at him. The hectic nature of the day prior meant that he concealed it through circumstance, for the most part, but now she saw cracks and fugues where they previously were none. They were not a couple that kept anything from one another. She quietly hoped that he would confide in her like he did countless times before, but uncertainty took hold; was this just plaintive enough for him to bottle it up, for the first time in their shared existences? So she sat up at once as she heard the helicopter landing, louder and bigger than the ones of the Federal Guard, and eagerly made for the door, quietly praying that he would follow her, and that they'd have another momentary mystery on their paws, just so she could find the right way to approach this.   
  
They stood transfixed beside one another and observed a group of soldiers clear the largest landing site in the camp, and one of them waved his paws frantically at a parked tank, shouting as it struggled to switch into reverse and back away; a shadow grew from above, in the morning Sun, falling rapidly. It was the largest helicopter Judy had ever seen; roughly the length of a bus, with a massive rotor, easily overshadowing two Federation transports. It hovered slightly above the pad and turned, revealing its aft doors, opening horizontally, with a diameter wide enough to load armoured vehicles if necessary. Painted in a combination of white and blue, Judy immediately understood this to be an official vehicle of some sort, and by no means a frontline tool; the rotor slowly spun itself down, and its turbines gave a few chugs, which sent a high-pitched whine tearing through the camp.   
  
Judy clutched her sensitive ears as the ramp descended, and watched a group of soldiers stand inside, shoulder-to-shoulder, most of them tigers, with the odd wolf peering up from between the group. Outside of the difference in species, they were utterly indistinguishable from one another, and carried themselves forward with a disciplined march. The procession parted itself down the middle. Sixteen soldiers waited on each side, standing their weapons on their paws ceremoniously, and giving a salute; their left paw, clutched into a fist, and raised directly above them. A figure emerged from the darkness of the chopper. It walked forward on the heel of its boots. Then it stopped, raising a paw to shield itself from the morning light.   
  
"Fancy that." Nick remarked, and re-crossed his arms, to lean against the tentpole more comfortably. Judy simply nodded.   
  
The figure strode forward, and stretched; two short, jagged horns protruded from its head, partially obscured behind a flat officer's cap. Judy took a few steps forward, and Nick followed, until she stopped, some distance away from this unknown figure. A tent on the far side of the camp opened, and she saw two additional forms emerge, side-by-side, similar in height, but familiar, unlike the new arrival; Carter and Caplin; the bull's stride was as confident as always whilst the lioness appeared relaxed beside him, her paws in her pockets. Both approached the mysterious figure, and saluted, with a flat palm, and it returned the gesture, once again with a clenched fist. The noise of the chopper died down fully, and Judy would most likely be able to overhear what they had to say to one another, but she made for Caplin's side regardless. Nick kept pace with her somewhat reluctantly, his head hung low, and his paws probing nervously through his pockets, eyes glancing about in anticipation. Caplin nodded at Judy as she stood behind her.  
  
The ibex was decidedly female, but not at a glance, her black hair cut short in a straight line, hanging just above her shoulders, and her posture rigid and disciplined. Her uniform was medium green in colour, substantially lighter than Carter's, but not bright by any means; upon her shoulders sat a pair of dark red pauldrons, adorned with the mark of rank, and a red star, surrounded by golden yellow leaves. She lowered her fist and gave Carter a nod, followed by a raised eyebrow at the sight of the bunny.   
  
"And who might you be?" She inquired through a thick accent, and folded her hands behind her back, to lean forward slightly.  
  
"Judy Hopps, Zootopia Police Department." She offered a paw to shake, but was refused with a polite nod, "Pleasure to meet you."  
  
"I am Lieutenant General Valentina Viktoryeva Yesikov, currently in command of the First Pancontinentian Provisional Front of The Workers' and Peasants' Red Army of Russo-Slavia, and liaising for the Indo-Thasian People's Liberation Army." She rattled off rapidly, and paused, taking a moment to survey the unorthodox gathering before her, by no means reminiscent of any real military outfit, "I am here to take command of the Federal Guard of Pancontinentia."  
  
"What she's trying to say is she's here to fire us." Caplin remarked, which earned her a muted laugh from Carter and a staunch glance from General Yesikov, who merely bit her lower lip, "And we're glad you are, by all means."  
  
"I assure you, so am I." She took a step forward, evidently not caring whether either Carter or Caplin cared to follow, and made for the tent from which the latter two emerged, "The Supreme Soviet of Russo-Slavia is currently arriving in Centralia, and preparing to ratify the provisional government." She raised her arm and glanced at her watch, "I'll explain everything once we're in my office proper." Carter puffed lightly, which resulted in Caplin giving his side a jab, and he responded with a nod, "Which way to my office, by the by?"  
  
"Right over there." Carter pointed towards his tent, and they filed into it, Judy and Nick bringing up the rear with Caplin, and leaving Yesikov at the front; the ibex instantly turned towards the desk and sat down on it, leaving Carter the guest chair, along with one for Caplin; everyone else was to stand, evidently, "Is it to your liking?"  
  
"Not...quite." The ibex remarked as she inspected the small Pancontinentian flag on the desk, jammed into its corresponding hole in the inkwell. She removed it, and passed it to Carter, and then reached into her uniform, producing from it an equally small reproduction of the Russo-Slavian flag, completely red, save for a small, yellow hammer and sickle in the upper left corner, "Much better. Now, then." She laced her fingers together and leaned forward, to survey those before her, "Let us begin." Silence drifted through the air, and Yesikov flashed her eyes across those before her, evidently waiting for something, "I was hoping you'd ask me a question."  
  
"Such as?" Carter asked, and she shrugged.  
  
"Anything in regards to the paper you're about to sign." She reached into her uniform once more, but this time into the right-hand side of it, to unfurl a piece of paper from it and lay it onto the table, "This certifies that you're granting us full control of your entire military forces, land, sea, and air, for an indefinite amount of time."  
  
"I understand as much, hence why I didn't ask." The bull's response was a short one, and he looked towards the lioness on his right, "My associate, however, may have a few questions."  
  
"The PCID has a unit named Alpha-" Caplin began, but was instantly cut off by Yesikov.  
  
"...One, which we know about, and are fully integrating it into the provisional RUAFSS division." She unfurled her digits and folded them over again, merely changing which hand was atop the other, "Once we establish a politburo, they'll most likely serve as their directive task force."  
  
"Politburo?" It was Nick's turn to chime in, and Yesikov nodded.  
  
"Yes, the executive arm of the Provisional Supreme Soviet, divided between Russo-Slavia and Indo-Thasia, and assembled from present members of the Communist Party of Pancontinentia." She closed her eyes for a moment, "I believe they had a little more than half of the seats in your committee, yes?"  
  
"Council." Carter corrected her swiftly and gave a nod, "So the council will be disbanded?"  
  
"Yes and no." The ibex reached into her pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes, from an strange-looking foil box, and placed one between her lips, tightly pinching the filter with her fingers; the smoke was strong, and Judy felt her eyes sting, but no-one else complained, "It'll merely change its name and its method of operation." She tilted her head slightly, "You elected your council-members before, correct?" The group gave a series of nods.  
  
"Well, that is going to change. Rather than vote on who gets to be in the Supreme Soviet, you'll get to vote on issues directly, through a system of direct, participational democracy based on divisions in the local government, in a manner of speaking." She took a drag on her cigarette, and Carter lit one up as well; Judy could see Nick slowly beginning to struggle for breath in the smoked-in tent, "There'll be a local committee, and you'll be able to speak your peace on various issues in a lengthy and formal manner. That way, everyone gets the same amount of critical power in terms of how the government is run."  
  
"The politburo will also serve as the secret police, correct?" Caplin added, which Yesikov responded to with a shake of her head and a soft laugh, "What's so funny?"  
  
"Our children are taught everything about the way you run your state, and yet you, a high-ranking member of the PCID, cannot name the executive bodies of our government. Typical." Caplin stared at the ibex from the side, through narrowed eyes, but she appeared unaffected by the lioness' offended glance, "The secret police operates on behalf of the politburo, but is in no way, shape, or form an integral part thereof. It is a separate governing body, together with the police and the military. Yours will be provisional for the time being, just like all other branches of your government, but once we take steps to ratify your state proper and implement the Marxist-Leninist system in use in our own states, they'll become formalized."  
  
"This isn't just temporary?" Judy spoke up, and Yesikov shook her head, "You're staying for good?"  
  
"Officer Hopps, the state of Pancontinentia doesn't exist any more." She explained, slowly, apparently slightly irked by the sudden volley of seemingly irrelevant questions directed her way, but she maintained her cool exterior, rolling the letter r with every word, "Your flags, your anthems, your government, everything which once formed your national identity has officially been turned to an object of history, no longer relevant." She inspected the glowing tip of her cigarette, through bored, distant eyes, "You may think we won the war forty-seven years ago, but I assure you, our victory has been cemented just now. And was it ever time." She looked across the group before her again, leaning back in her chair slightly, her cap keeping its position regardless of the tilt of her head, "The Earth is finally united. Communism has won, capitalism has lost. Simple as."  
  
"I see." Judy responded and gave a sigh; she was by no stretch of the imagination a nationalistic creature, but it felt odd to suddenly be transported into another time, another world, without moving more than twenty feet; imaginary lines cast out in the grand scheme of things, shifted and moved, transported and transfigured with ease, "So we'll get a new flag?"  
  
"You'll get a new flag, a new anthem, a new state emblem, a new form of government, and new paper-work for everything you need." Yesikov stood up and began pacing behind the chair, peering into the distance as her fist clenched itself beside her, relaxing after a moment to sink into her pocket leisurely, "Everything is going to change for the better. Corporations will be sold back to the state, and their CEOs will be reimbursed, provided they fall in line with the party. If they don't..." She stubbed the cigarette out on the floor and stamped against it with her hoof, "Well, someone needs to break rocks for the reconstruction effort."  
  
"So who will own the businesses?" Nick crossed his arms and looked up at her, and she turned to him, pausing for a second as she computed the answer.  
  
"The workers." Her hand flew up and she raised a finger declaratively, "In accordance to Marxist-Leninist ideals, the workers are to own the means of production, meaning that each factory will be placed under the command of a workers' committee, an exectuive body separate from the government that will decide everything; wages, equipment acquisition, vacation time, working hours, and so on." She took a step to the edge of the table and sat up on it, and her tail gave a brief twitch, "The free market no longer exists, mister..." She trailed off, seeking his name.  
  
"Wilde. Nicholas Wilde." The fox leaned to the other side and gave a half-smile, "Former junior editor for the Zootopia Daily Times."  
  
"Right." She gave a nod, and returned the smile, but thinly; a female of discipline, through and through, Judy noted, "Private enterprise will be made illegal and punishable by law. You see, our ideology assumes that the pursuit of personal wealth off the backs of the proletariat is a crime."  
  
"This is...feasible?" Judy inquired and watched as the ibex gave a simple, understanding nod, almost condescendingly teaching towards her lack of knowledge on the subject; then again, she did the same to everyone, even Carter, who outranked her firmly, "We were never taught this in schools in full."  
  
"Yes, your educational system has mostly been propaganda. We've been stone-walling several major mistakes in the curriculum for a while now, pushed most notably by the conservative side of your former council, but never intervened on the smaller ones, seeing as this was truly inevitable." Yesikov exchanged glances with Carter, who appeared to be fidgeting with his half-smoked cigarette, having taken it very slowly, apparently growing impatient by the discussion, "Your local branch of the Workers' Party of Pancontinentia will be able to provide you with further information on the subject. Anyhow, we've more pressing matters at paw."   
  
She pushed the paper across the table, and Carter reached into his pocket, to click a pen open and pull his chair closer, "Sign here, and here. And you, Agent Caplin..." She motioned towards the lioness, "Are hereby relieved of duty until further notice. Your director has already signed his affidavit." Caplin gave a nod, "However, this is only on paper. You're free to assist us in any way, shape, or form you want. And once all of this is finished, I'm sure both of you will be able to find speedy re-employment within the relevant branches of the state."  
  
"Thank you." Carter finished his signature with a motion of his elbow, and then leaned back, stretching his legs in front of him, "I'm not sure of how much use I'll be, as my forces are tiny compared to yours, I'm sure." He reached up and peeled off the rank from his shoulders, followed by the medals on the front of his uniform, unbuttoning it lastly and letting it hang open on either side, revealing the neat white dress shirt beneath, "And now I can finally breathe again."  
  
"C'mon, Adam, keep me company." The lioness added, oddly soft-spoken in her tone, especially when talking to Carter, and her paw glanced over the back of his hand, "It'll get boring up there in the command tent without you."  
  
"Ah, fine." He responded with a chuckle, "Say, you wanna get breakfast?"  
  
"I'd love to."   
  
With that, both of them departed the tent, keeping oddly close to one another, and Judy stared after them curiously, head tilted to one side. She figured that it no longer counted as fraternization. A soft laugh slipped her lips, an inwards one; at least now they'll be able to work their frustrations out proper, and without anyone chastizing them for it.   
  
"You two are still here?" Yesikov motioned towards both Nick and Judy, and crossed her fingers beneath her chin, "I have a lot of work to do still, so if you don't mind..." She motioned towards the door, "You've witnessed the historical event you needed to see."  
  
"Of course, sorry to keep you, general." Judy excused herself and pulled Nick out along with herself, who struggled slightly against her grasp, seemingly still transfixed by the revalations within. Once they were outside, he looked at her somewhat hollowly, and after a moment's pause, spoke up.  
  
"Let's get something to eat as well." She gave a nod and they walked towards the mess tent, his paw in his pocket, and hers threaded through his arm; they looked to the right and watched as a group of Russo-Slavian soldiers lowered the Pancontinentian flag for the very last time.   
  


* * *

  
He truly did have no words to express how he felt. She ate slowly, picking about her egg-flavoured protein substitute, and glanced up at him over the edge of her muzzle, peering into him blankly; she felt it too, of course she did. There's the female that loves you unconditionally and you're unable to give her anything, not even an ounce of what is truly happening to you; Nick's thoughts knew no peace or order. It was a train-wreck. Ever since he returned, nothing has been the same, and nothing felt right. Even his food tasted off. He needed time to think and to compose himself before he could show her just what it was that troubled him. He slipped out of bed late the night previous. Nick closed his eyes for a moment.   
  
He heard a name being called in his dreams, between images of the return, of a happier age, a time spent together rather than apart, that accursed name, chanted by a spectre. Faint at first, then closer, deeper, stinging akin to sunlight on bare, furless skin. This is how the storm begins, he thought then, clasping the sheets to his chest; not with the forceful buzz of a gale, but the distant whispers of a breeze, to herald the arrival of darker clouds. He swung his legs from the bed and rubbed his eyes. The blur of interrupted sleep began giving way. For a brief second, he wondered whether it would vanish back into the image of their apartment, and of their life, separate from the horrors of this age. Instead, all he saw were the cots, populated by countless sleeping forms, and the faint rush of temperate air, moist and thick, clinging to his fur. He looked about himself. She slept beside him, her haunches pulled close, paws compressed underneath her chin, and her lip shivering with a snore. What was she dreaming of?   
  
It took him a mere moment to find it. That last page of the forms they filled out together. Nick could not recall why he took it with himself. The signature stared back at him through the muted, distant neon that burned in the corner. They left a few lights on, so that those that could not sleep may wander about at will. As far as he could see, he was the only one. So he made for the door. The air grew colder when he left the tent, and without the warmth of countless bodies huddled together, the solemn chill wrapped itself around his ankles swiftly, but he did not care; he did not even think to put on a shirt. Where was it that he was going? He merely made for the other end of the camp. Nothing stirred. In the distant guard-post by the egress stood a form, outlined against a spotlight, seemingly asleep on its feet. He did not give it a second thought. Nick stopped.   
  
Above him, the stars rose; there were no clouds to speak of. From one horizon to the other, there grew a line, thin at first, then stretching, into colours vast and undying, from the faint shimmer of flame, softly blue, then a brighter white, and collapsing, folding over, into etched shapes, triangles undefined without a point to support the prongs, only angles. But this was merely the wall-paper to the greatest show in the universe, one he had seen countless times before, under different circumstances, but it still touched something deep within him, something primal and without borders, in places undivided. Pin-pricks, picked in this carpet, bled light over from some place far away, a place without life, deep inside the nothingness of the void. They formed shapes, which sapient-kind had observed from the very earliest days of measured time, using it for everything, from the folly of religion, to the concrete, measured approaches of seaward navigation. Something broke inside the fox.   
  
He sat on the edge of the park, cross-legged in the dirt, with the fence at his back, concealed by the sharp corners of the tents, in a place that light would never touch, and watched all of creation sigh before him. It was a tremendous sound, utterly silent, without an ounce of noise, but so deep, penetrating, that it rocked everything. There was virgo, and cancer, and the signs, according to which some charted the trajectories of their existences; and then the deep groan of ships on the high seas, following these very same paths, but to port, to something firm, instead of superstition. He saw now what his ancestors did too, with minimal correction. Some stars collapsed, others grew, into supernovas, into red dwarves and giants, pulsars, galaxies so utterly separated by an expanse of silence that it was never their destiny to cross that boundary.   
  
His digits folded across one another as the tears came. Behind him, the city, burning, and the odd groan of passing blasts, so palpable in the silence, reminded him of the true nature of things, of the true bestiality ocurring beneath this celestial landmark; the basest instincts liberated without an ounce of sapience left anywhere, and nothing to part them from the places whence they came, the early elements which would go on to form the building-blocks of their genetic structures and send them on the inexorable path of chemistry gone awry, defying expectation and chance odds on a rock, a mote of dust, a speck hovering in a gargantuan ray of luminescence. If only he could show to them what he was seeing. Sixty years ago, animals walked on the Moon. To break the binds of our earthly selves and fall deeper into this, the greatest storm, the perfect hurricane, without Gods, without ideology, without rules or ports. And now they eradicated one another.   
  
Pete; that name, drawn upon his heart in blood, never to be altered or erased. For as long as he lived, he promised himself as he wiped a tear, he would bear it with himself. Now he closed his eyes and tried to see what he was sure she was dreaming of, the sole thing they had left; the future; upon the faces of his children, that cub's visage became implanted, and he no longer felt save giving his offspring to the world. He knew it was a cruel place. Nick was not as naive as his wife. But he thought himself strong enough to prepare them for all that lay ahead. The nature of raising your own meant to supplant the tabula rasa with which they were born, the barest slate, influenced wholly by the environment, loving or cruel, cold or impossibly close, with the reality of things. But the moment he pulled that trigger and ended the boy's life, he had given away that which he was, in part, to him, and let him drift off into death.  
  
Now he was a star. Just like all the others, he was a star. There were no Gods, no Paradise, no Golden Gates; he knew this as much as he knew that he was a fox and that Judy was a bunny, and that the Sun would rise tomorrow, and then set, and that this show would repeat itself, over and over, until he no longer drew the breath he needed to see it, or to feel it. But he knew of physics. Energy cannot be destroyed, it can only change form; Pete lived, still, up there, amongst the stars. As did all the heroes of the past. Amongst pioneers, scientists, great artists, those who plotted the reality they had now, and nailed down firmly the building-blocks of their sapient existence, lived a little boy that could've been any of them. A star. But that star would pursue him, and its face and voice, and desperate pleas for life against the unceasing waves of chance and cirumstance would forever haunt him, in the form of that choral apparition, to wail in his dreams, and rend at him at wake.   
  
So he clasped the paper. With that signature, illuminated now by the Moon, rising faintly from above the trees, the waxing moon, a shimmering sickle upon the spotless display where it hung, he had signed off on raising another, and upon doing all that needed to be done; but could he do so, truly? Could he, with good faith, leave his offspring in a world where creatures like Bogo had command and agency, and then supplant into them the notion that they too had agency? So did Pete's father when he hid with him in the city's guts, and so did Nick, when he decided to do the unthinkable. He folded the paper once, then twice, and made a diagonal line, and tucked it into his waistband. And then he wept. Bitterly and deeply, he shed tears for a boy that never stood a chance. There you are, Nicholas Wilde; a fox, fooling himself with thinking that he can truly save anyone, beneath the watchful gaze of the night, clasping yourself, trying to recall the freezing assault upon your being. You are so small, he thought, disjointed and alone, so small, so utterly insignificant now, at the gates of life and death, where two end-points meet, to form that worshipped triangle.   
  
And then he opened his eyes again.   
  
Today was a different day, another day, just as futile as the last. She sat before him and stabbed the eggs forcefully, and then bit down on them, chewing slowly, watching him no doubt as he stared out, through her, into the alabaster plains of eternity. He could not meet her gaze. How could he possibly explain all the motions the boy went through before he died? He needed to show her, he needed to make her feel what he felt so she could understand, but that would mean the impossible; to cause her immeasurable pain. He would quip and laugh, and he would fight, always, for her sake, to hold onto something, but now the fight left him, and she saw, but did not feel why that was the case. So he finished his meal, tasting of paper and sawdust, lay his fork down, and excused himself.   
  
Find another hill from which you can survey, in daylight, the sum of the sapient kind's sins. That in which you became privy, to which you played part, but never wanted to, and in the end, ultimately, had to, so that the gears may continue turning. Fate had seen it fit to make their roads meet in that forgotten corridor, and fate had also called upon him, then, to do what he did. Fate. Fuck fate; he walked swiftly up the hill, with the dirt echoing behind him. Surely she would follow him. He had never done this before, left like that, but he did it deliberately, just like he did the day before, with that tug on the weapon. He wanted her to follow him. Perhaps then the words would come, unstoppable, and without pause or breath, between bitter tears. There were moments in his life where he wanted to cry, but simply couldn't, a soft wail to reveal to his surroundings the mere fraction of the ache he felt.   
  
There lay a tree atop the hill, just outside the secondary encampment. He leaned against it, and then slid down, folding his legs, to watch the city burn. The plumes of smoke had only grown more rabid and hungry since the last time he saw them, until they began to savage the blue sky, and the business district slowly began its descent towards its final resting place, a pile of rubble. Today began a new age. He heard what the Russo-Slavian general had to say, and he could not speak fully, then, of his agreement with their point of view. There it was, the vile sum of all he despised, which he would watch from the driver's seat of his car during the age gone by, and swear at, wondering whether it would ever cease, whether the commanders of these castles would ever meet their equals, their repressed masses from whom they drew such immeasurable power and wealth. Now they had, or would shortly. But it was a phyrric victory; a boy had to die, not just one, but many. Not just a boy. Faces, animals, creatures of fur and flesh, to give their all to make this a reality, unknowingly becoming components in a lunatic's plot. Everything was too loud, too close, too intense.   
  
Sure enough, her steps came rattling up the hill. He glanced behind himself. There she was; a bunny, shorter than him, smaller, grey fur, purple eyes, and a tiny, pink nose to pull it all together, the focal point of her visage. She had dreadful bags under her eyes. He knew why. She felt it, too. She felt him leave. Now she wanted to talk some sense into him. Yesterday, they had been given a second chance. Yesterday, he took her with himself and drew her to bed, promising to make use of tomorrow, of the years ahead, but then, in an instant, it was all once more erased, by gunshots and sirens in the great nothing beneath their feet.   
  
"Nicholas." She spoke slowly and softly as she sat beside him, leaning against a tree-trunk; she only used his full name when joking, or when addressing something exceptionally serious, "Talk to me."  
  
"I can't."   
  
"No, you can, always." Her voice was not that of a wife, a partner with whom he had signed that paper, said his vows, and promised what he did, but of his best friend, his rock onto which he could cling despite the tide. There was no romantic love now, no sexual attraction or a basal, biological need towards procreation with those our instincts deem suitable; only endless love for the creature trapped within that mess of orange and cream fur, "I am going to help you with this."  
  
"I did something I will never forget." He began, and then it came, the details, the horrific tugs and pulls on strings forgotten, to outline his crime. As he spoke, and his voice broke, and the tears came, she bent towards him, making for his lap, and sat there, clinging to him, deeply, sighing whenever another image came up, another word that boy spoke before he left, and she would nod. Then he finished. He stopped. There was no structure to it. No conclusion, no ruled essay with cited sources: a full stop. That is who you are, Nicholas Wilde, and that, Judith Rose Hopps, is who you've married.   
  
"I see." Simple, and to the point; and then, she kissed him on the cheek, right where his very first tear slid down, "I am so proud of you."  
  
"Why?" He demanded, and she shook her head, "What have you got to be proud of me for?"  
  
"You did the right thing." She rested her head on his shoulder and looked out, towards the bay, the burning city, with him, her paws wrapped around his upper arm, "Nick, you've taught me a lot of things in these last two and a half years." Her voice turned to a whisper, "You've taught me that you have to keep going, no matter what, no matter how much those around you call for you to fail, or how much your own mind betrays you. I've said that before, I've pretended to know it, outwardly, but until you came around, and you did what you had done, so many times, I wasn't sure whether I knew it."   
  
"And then there's other things you've taught me, too; love, compassion, togetherness, companionship, and that little spot behind my left ear which causes me to shiver." He gave a soft laugh, and she pressed her lips against his cheek again, hushing him softly, "But the most important thing you've ever taught me is that doing the right thing is often the hardest, and that we have to do it, no matter the cost, or the price." Nick felt her eyes close, and he did the same, "That is what kept me going after the nightclub case. The idea that, even though it hurts to look at those pictures, and even though that fox could've easily been you, that he looks exactly like you, he isn't you, and if I don't want that to happen to you, I have to act, and do."  
  
"That is..." He had no words left to describe the immense lift she had given him; so he turned, and kissed her on the lips, both their tears flowing freely now, not out of sadness, but out of sheer love and togetherness; one day ago, he had come home, back to her, but only now did their souls meet for the first time proper, and touched, like they had done a million times before, but different, more, deeper, and closer, "I cannot..."  
  
"Let me show you something." She raised her wrist towards him, and showed that scar of hers, from the corn thresher incident, "Remember what I told you about this?"  
  
"That you hurt yourself back at Bunnyburrow." Judy gave a nod, and then glanced away, "Why? What about it?"  
  
"That's...a lie." She sighed, "Nick, that scar was made by a razor blade."  
  
"What?" His mouth turned try, and he felt his breath become shallow, "When?"  
  
"About a year and a half ago. I..." Her eyes glanced towards him now, up into him, and he felt her try and hold onto him; the fear in her body shook her apart; he felt her shiver, "I felt so alone, and I didn't know whether you'd understand...I mean, I didn't know why it was happening, even. Until they told me."  
  
"Judy, you've tried to..." He couldn't even finish that thought, but she nodded gently, "Please, no."  
  
"They told me I had clinical depression, Nick." The fox tried to speak but she silenced him yet again, "You had nothing to do with this. Please, don't blame yourself. It was a...a chemical imbalance in my brain that made me do it, some neurons misfiring here and there, and I still...I still don't fucking know why I did that, but you did everything you could." He looked away, "I'm sorry I hid that from you, but I just didn't...know how you would react and respond, and I..." She sighed; he looked out, still; the thoughts in his brain ran around once more, but buzzed around her now, around how to protect her, "Nick, please."  
  
"First of all, I'm not angry or disappointed that you didn't tell me. I understand, Judy." She tilted her head a bit, and he nodded, "I understand that mental illness is a shit-show, and that it targeted you by chance. And that you couldn't find the words to tell me, just like I couldn't moments ago." He turned to her, and looked deep into her, once more, but now his gaze no longer followed imagined dots in her eyes, points where he could find that he loved about her, but her alone, her being and her soul, "I don't blame you. But I have a question. Did this happen again, the urge, in recent memory?" She gave a weak nod, "As soon as this is over, we're going to get you some help."  
  
"What?" She moved away a bit, "What do you mean?"  
  
"Depression is an illness, just like the flu, or a broken leg. And if you need help, we're going to get you some help." He explained simply, without and ounce of sadness or ceremony in his voice, "There are animals that can help you. They've been trained and taught how to deal with this, and how to help you get better in ways I cannot." Before he could even finish his sentence fully, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and hugged him deeply, lovingly, compassionately, a best friend, a wife, one in two, "This will never happen again, do you understand? I won't let it happen again."  
  
"Nick, by the Gods..." She whispered in his ear, and laughed softly, a titter of pure joy, "I never thought you'd understand at all, but like this...just..." Her lips found his cheek, over and over again, repeatedly pressing the same points, "I love you so much. So, so very much."  
  
"I love you too, carrots." He kissed her on the lips, breifly, fleetingly, but forever, "Just as much."  
  
And then it was just the two of them, and nothing else. Destinies changed for ever, taken charge against the tides of change, having affected something, having saved someone, even if it was just the two of them, together, just like they had promised. Their country no longer existed, their house was ablaze, and their past cast aside, in some bygone era. Yesterday, their entire world got a second chance. But Nick felt a new epoch begin now, with her at his side. He was small, and so was she, impossibly tiny, just like he had established before, but together, the universe, this cold construct of godless chance, cruel in its indifference, would bend to them.   
  
Yesterday was gone, and tomorrow had just come anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go, the new chapter! This one is a little bit shorter than all the other ones, but there were some rather pressing issues I wanted to discuss without usurping the delicate emotional balance beteween global and individual emotions, and I couldn't have done that if I went into some of the more action-packed stuff that's coming shortly. 
> 
> Once again, thank you all so, so much for reading. You're all amazing and magical creatures, and I sincerely hope that you'll find this new chapter up to par with the rest of the stuff I've written. We've got five more chapters left, plus the epilogue, so now you know just how much more White Death you can expect! If you've got any questions about the AU in which the story takes place, feel free to ask me in PM or send me an ask on my Tumblr, which you'll find in my author description. 
> 
> If you've enjoyed the story, leave kudos, and a bookmark, if you haven't done so already. See you next week, and stay groovy!


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